The Early Partnership
by WishfulWriting
Summary: Updated description: Story features Peter and Neal's early experience working together on cases with Neal as a freshly minted CI. As they learn each other's style and grow as partners, they find themselves on a challenging case that winds up getting them in an accident and unexpectedly stranded...
1. Chapter 1

Neal was frustrated and bored.

It was an unfortunate combination. He knew that.

He sat alone in his apartment late that night, rotating his glare across the room, from the blank screen of the television, to an untouched canvas that waited patiently on an easel in the kitchen beside an array of oil paints, and finally to a book on the couch that he'd had on his list for a while but had not yet touched.

At the moment, none of these potential sources of entertainment elicited any feelings of interest or prospect. He felt anything but inspired or motivated. He mostly felt restless. His eyes moved from one option to the other as he let out an audible sigh.

Eventually, he got up from his seat and began to slowly pace the room, running his hands over his head, fingers coursing their way through his hair, feeling it grow unruly as the gel from hours ago was now long gone.

Despite its square footage, tonight the apartment felt like a jail cell. He felt boxed in and confined. Because that's exactly what he was. Imprisoned.

Considering this, he reflected on his day. While it had started out as fairly ordinary, it had quickly progressed into one painful, very bad, unfortunate day that he wished to not repeat.

That morning, they had finally been close to solving a particularly challenging case that was stretching into its third week, and tensions were running high even early in the day. While energy was taut, Neal also felt an excitement to know that closure was in sight, and that he would be part of another success for the FBI. Despite that, the progression of the day itself had been aggravating, as Neal kept finding himself feeling like he was constantly in the way rather than able to directly help.

Over their short period of time working together, Neal thought he'd found a good rhythm with Peter, one that usually came naturally. But that day, whatever he did, it felt like he was always underfoot. As the day progressed, he felt a lot less like a partner and more like an inconvenience.

That sentiment had started from early that morning, first after being late to a meeting because he'd run out to get coffee, which earned him a glare and a few sharp words. To his defense, the meeting had been scheduled last minute, and he hadn't known about its impromptu start until being late was unavoidable. Then as the group debriefed, he'd disagreed with Peter on the details of the motive they were assuming of the suspect, causing yet another uncomfortable glare in his direction. As the day drew on, it got worse. It just seemed like Peter was constantly correcting him or asking him to step aside. Discouraged, Neal tried to heed the instruction without taking it personally, but while doing so, he ached to be able to step up and just _contribute _somehow.

He knew this whole relationship with Peter stemmed from his ability to positively contribute. If he couldn't clearly show that he was the one influencing case results, then why would they have a reason to keep the arrangement? If he merely got in the way, and created more work for Peter than benefit, then wouldn't they prefer he go back to prison and be out of their hair? Peter certainly threatened it enough, and it wasn't lost on him that if he didn't show the right results consistently it could happen with little effort.

Despite the short age of their arrangement, he'd had a few good wins with Peter already in the last few months. And that felt good, especially when Peter gave him that satisfied grin and acknowledged something he'd done had been right. But he knew he had to keep that momentum steady to prove this deal made sense. If the threats to send him back outnumbered the case closures… That would mean trouble.

This was in the back of his mind as the day's friction seemed to continually escalate further. After a couple missteps during the concluding events of the case, which admittedly were perhaps due to Neal not _exactly_ following the orders Peter had given him (though Neal's opinion was that his actions were not really a _direct_ insubordination as Peter later accused), he then found himself precariously within range of the crossfire exchanged between the agents on the case and the suspect before the latter was swiftly apprehended and arrested.

The close call seemed to be the tipping point for Peter, and Neal had found himself dragged onto the sidelines with a forceful grip on his arm and at the receiving end of a scathing lecture from his handler, all while in the audience of a dozen or so other scattered agents, which made Neal feel humiliated and angry. He held his tongue then, just wanting the moment to pass as quickly as possible, and swallowed back his defensive response for later.

The ride back the office hadn't been any better. It only provided a still heated Peter a further platform to lecture him, and Neal continued to refrain from speaking as long as he could before inevitably responding back.

"Actually, I stepped in at the right time," he said assertively as Peter took pause to breathe between his repeated accusations of Neal being 'irresponsible, disobedient, and boneheaded.' "In fact, me stepping in is part of the reason the suspect is even in custody, Peter. Your guys didn't even see him at first."

He quickly regretted the comment.

Peter clearly didn't like that answer, and he'd gone so far as to (with squealing tires, Neal would add) pull over into an open space on the side of Queens Boulevard by a hydrant, which unnerved Neal both from the driving tactic itself (he'd crossed two lanes seemingly without thinking twice, never mind checking his mirrors) as well as the wrath in Peter's tone that followed.

"You want to repeat that to me?" Peter asked. It was a dare. His hands gripped the wheel, and Neal could see the white of his knuckles.

"You heard me," Neal responded instinctively before he could school his tongue. Perhaps bottling up his response for most of the afternoon now made it harder to refrain from defending himself. "And you know I'm right."

Then the car was put into park, gear stick jammed forward angrily, and Peter turned in his seat, sending a glare Neal's way that made the younger man's heart sink to his stomach and sent a small shiver down his spine. He knew that look. This look was usually the precursor to something Neal was not going to like. He started to feel the need for self-preservation.

"Neal," Peter began, tone low.

Neal knew what it meant when his name was spoken that way, and he wasn't just going to allow himself to be easy prey. Peter wasn't _always _right. Without thinking much of it, his one hand moved towards his seatbelt, swiftly unbuckling it, while his other hand went towards the door handle beside him. He'd heard enough of this repeated lecture; he could get home himself before things escalated further. "I'm done, Peter," he said.

"No," Peter said firmly, quickly reaching to lock the doors from the panel on his driver side door. "What are you doing? You are _not_ done. No one gave you permission to leave the car. Not to mention we're in Sunnyside. Where the hell are you gonna go?"

"I can take a cab," Neal said stiffly. He stared at the door handle that had betrayed him and then futilely tried to pull it open again.

"No, you can't." Peter's tone was curt. "We're not done, Neal. Put your seatbelt back on."

Neal tried the door handle once more, as though it would give him a different answer, and then simply turned his head to give Peter a sullen look.

"Put your seatbelt back on," Peter repeated stiffly. "You get out of this car, then I get out of this car. And you're not going to like what happens."

"I'm faster than you," Neal responded with a small smile. He wanted the smile to be contagious and to bring some levity to the discussion. Maybe charming Peter out of his anger was an option. Sometimes that worked quite while.

This time it did not.

Instead, Peter shook his head in response, that slow back and forth motion that indicated he was _not _in the mood to be defied or to give up his anger. "I'm telling you a third time. Get your hand off the door, and put your seatbelt back on. You make me repeat it again, and—"

"Fine." Neal hastily rebuckled his seatbelt before Peter could finish the statement, smile vanishing as he felt like a chastened child. Buckled in once again, he gave Peter a pointed look, but tried to keep his expression neutral. "You've been lecturing me for an hour, Peter. And no offense, it's becoming a bit repetitive. I promise to try not to get in the middle of a shootout again. Okay? And notice I said _try _because it's not like I did it on purpose. So if it happens again—"

"It _won't _happen again because you might never be on a case again," Peter interjected irritably. "And you did it on purpose when you chose not to listen to me."

Neal's eyebrows shot up at that. Never be on a case again? If he couldn't be on cases, then how could he be useful? And if he wasn't useful… He swallowed. "Peter, that's not really fair. You'd take me off of cases? Over this?"

"Fair?" Peter repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Let's talk fair, Neal. Let's talk about what you just did back there. I specifically told you to stay back. I told you _where_ to stand. You had _no _reason to do what you did. The agents had it under control. If I've gotta spend my time worrying about whether or not someone on my team is going to make a boneheaded decision when there's a _shootout_ going on, then I don't want that person on my team."

"The shootout happened _after_ I moved in," Neal pointed out. "When I moved in, he—"

"I don't care! I tell you to stay somewhere, then you damn well better stay there!" Peter spoke the words while jabbing a finger into Neal's shoulder. "You don't listen, then this doesn't work. I didn't get you out of prison to become my liability!"

This doesn't work, Neal repeated in his head. He considered the words. 'This' was their arrangement. "I just told you," he replied, keeping his tone sincere and patient despite feeling anything but, "that I'll try not to do it again."

"Trying isn't good enough." Peter shook his head. "You'll 'try' to listen? Dammit, Neal… Do you even realize what could have happened back there? If you were just a few feet over? If you got hit?"

"You'd probably have a lot of paperwork," Neal commented slowly. He resisted the smirk that was rising to his lips, retaining a solemn expression.

Peter abruptly hit his hand against the steering wheel in exasperation at the response, hitting the horn accidentally, and the startling sound of it made Neal jump slightly.

"Do you think this is funny?" Peter continued angrily. "Paperwork? That's your answer? If my words aren't getting through to you, Neal, I can use some other methods to make sure you understand. Should we try that instead?"

"No. I understand the words," Neal replied, squirming beneath his seatbelt. He yearned to try the door handle again but knew that thought was pointless as it would be locked. He wanted nothing more to be in a cab on his way over the 59th Street Bridge. "I was just joking, but I really do get it."

"Do you?" Peter challenged irritably. "This isn't the first time you've done something stupid like this. But it better be the last."

Neal nodded. There was no appropriate response in this situation other than to agree, truthful or not, and he realized despite the effort that light-heartedness was not going to extinguish the anger. This version of Burke was not easy to reason with and was easily incensed. "It'll be the last time," he confirmed, noting Peter was _forcing _him to lie. He wanted to tell Peter he didn't have a crystal ball. Deep down, he knew he'd probably mess up again. He always did. Half the time he tried to help, he later realized there was some sort of procedure or rule he was ignorantly, yet in the Agency's eye heinously, crossing. He swallowed. "I understand," he added to the lie.

"Well, I actually disagree. I don't think you understand just words," Peter told him, narrowing his eyes at him in scrutiny. "I think you grasp to the alternative, subversive meanings of words. And I don't think you get the seriousness here. And if I had time, I'd show you that. But I can't take you home because El is having the neighbors over for dinner. So you know what's going to happen now? When I drop you off at home, your radius goes to one block. Not an inch more. I mean it."

"Wait— what? One block?" Neal echoed, staring at the other man incredulously. He'd been about to attempt to have Peter let him out of the car again – offering to save him the return trip over the East River by traveling on his own – when the end of Peter's statement caught him off guard. Hearing the words, Neal's calm exterior suddenly crumbled, his unruffled façade replaced with a deeply furrowed brow. "Peter, are you serious?"

"Dead serious," Peter answered irritably, shaking his head while gripping his hands tightly on the steering wheel again. Neal considered this was maybe to force him to keep his hands to himself as he watched the grip tighten. He tried to be attentive as Peter continued. "I'm serious as hell, Neal. One block. And then tomorrow you can look forward to the stack of paperwork that will be on your desk. Paperwork is clearly all I can trust you with."

"That's not true," Neal objected, starting to brood. "And that's really not fair."

"You keep repeating that, but you have no idea what's fair," Peter responded, shaking his head.

"What I did _helped_ the case," Neal challenged.

"What you did nearly got you _killed_," Peter snapped in return. "You think I have you out on this deal so I can plan a funeral on the Agency's dime? I swear to God, Neal. If you're not going to listen to me right now, there's going to be hell to pay. You're lucky I'm only changing your radius."

"One block," Neal repeated again, shaking his own head in disbelief. He glared out the windshield in front of him, staring at the traffic of the multilane road. All those people in front of him, in cars and on the street, had freedom. All those people could go wherever they wanted. He felt angry and resentful, despite the fact that this arrangement was a better deal than the alternative- the time in prison that he had earned himself. "What if my block has an emergency? What if June and I have a fire?"

"Oh, don't start. I mean it," Peter responded stiffly. "No hypotheticals. No conjecture. You say one more word, and it'll be a one block radius for the rest of the week and a much longer conversation with me."

Neal scoffed at that, huffing out a deep breath of aggravation with a few other inaudible choice words added in indiscernibly.

"Neal…" Peter warned.

Neal turned his head to respond with a glare. "I didn't say a word, Peter."

"Well, that was six words. Zip it," Peter answered rigidly. "I'm dropping you at home, and I want to hear nothing else from you on the way there. You've given me enough grief today."

With that, he shifted the car's gear back into drive, and he began to pull away from the curb, muttering to himself before turning the volume up on the radio, a clear indication to not attempt conversation again.

So Neal was quiet for the rest of the car ride, leaning his head back against his headrest at an angle to look out the window sullenly. He didn't bother to hide his discontent nor to come up with any compelling objections. The afternoon was a failure, and he might as well leave it at that. At this point, he just wanted to be home and to put an end to this very bad day. Throughout this whole case he'd wanted nothing more than to help bring the suspects to justice. He wanted a 'good job' and an indication that Peter thought having him around was worthwhile. This was the opposite of that. This was negative points. In Peter's own words, he'd offered 'grief' and not support.

When Peter dropped him off after a traffic-riddled return to June's house, the older man said nothing, simply putting the car in park once he pulled up to the curb and reaching to press the button on his driver's side door to unlock the car. Neal paused for a moment, waiting to see if there would be any final word, but Peter remained silent, not even looking at him. He stared straight ahead. Neal cast one last look at his handler's stony face, debating a forced apology or _something_ to elicit a response, before deciding against it. He resisted the desire to ask Peter if they were good. He couldn't bring himself to ask.

So he quietly left the car without trying an attempt for reasonableness or to better terms. While he preferred not to end the day with the silent treatment, it was preferable to getting himself in further trouble by annoying the man further, risking an extended sentence, or worse, triggering Peter to follow him upstairs.

But once upstairs in the confines of his home, by himself and with the missteps of the day weighing on him heavily, as the clock ticked by, he felt trapped.

His thoughts towards Peter were conflicted and frustrating. On one hand, he felt infuriated at the confinement that had been imposed on him, and Peter's inability to understand that he couldn't just always be on the sidelines. But the other part of him now felt an emptiness, a deficit in the part of him that had been trying to gain Peter's approval the last few months. He knew that the infrequently gained approval was never unconditional, hence the need to constantly reinstate it, but ending the day with the man not even wanting to acknowledge him was rare and beyond a failure.

The irritated part of him wanted to call Peter's bluff, and to push up against the alleged one block radius. Maybe go two blocks. Or three. Or a mile. He knew the radius hadn't _really _changed. It's not like Peter would make a call into the Marshals on this.

It would all depend on Peter looking at the tracking data. In the car, he had referenced El was having company over. So he doubted she would permit him to be anything but social. However, even if Peter didn't actively watch him tonight, Neal was pretty sure it would be the first thing Peter reviewed in the morning. And as tempted as he was to make his point by both literally and figuratively stepping over the line, he also didn't want to deal with the repercussions of doing so. He wanted attention but that could cause the _wrong _kind of attention.

So he rolled his eyes in frustration, feeling constricted and undermined, as well as simply annoyed that a stupid threat was actually working on him. Wasn't he beyond this level of control? He was accustomed during certain periods of his life to feel his freedom be curtailed, even as an adult, such as while in prison. Now on the outside, even in this arrangement, he felt he should have some sense of independence within his real radius. It irked him that Peter was holding this invisible power over him. But he simply stewed over it, knowing that, invisible or not, the control was there.

He glowered over this for half of the evening. It wasn't even that he had somewhere to be. He didn't. It was the whole concept of it.

He considered inviting Mozzie over. But that would lead to him complaining to his friend about the situation, and Mozzie likely convincing him to cross that line after enough wine. While Mozzie was more than supportive of Neal standing up for himself to the Suits, Mozzie wouldn't be the one to have to deal with the consequences.

Then, in thinking of his friend, an idea for an activity to take his mind off things suddenly struck him. The day prior, Mozzie had told him a story about a bank robbery gone awry, with two robbers caught on the rooftop, unable to escape.

"_Always be prepared_," had been Mozzie's teaching words. _"What would you do in that situation?" _

Neal agreed and admitted he wasn't sure what he'd do and had to think about it. There had to be a way out from every situation.

"_Preparation requires multiple options. Outside of the box options," _Mozzie had continued, before they evolved into a hypothetical conversation on how they would maneuver themselves in such a situation. Neal had to say he was impressed with their creativity during the discussion.

And so that evening, after enduring a couple hours of boredom and self-deprecating thoughts and anger at Peter and his stupid rules, he found himself not just out on the patio of the beautiful home of June's, but also exploring its escape methods. After all, Mozzie was right. One never knew when it might be required to find an alternative option for escape. Even at home. Like he knew too well, homes could be temporary.

To his delight, there appeared to be many points of exit from his patio, and he made it his night's conquest to adequately assess them all, considering their advantages against their disadvantages. This activity was a much better distraction than painting or television. Or dwelling on the day.

Neal was no stranger to unique exits. He had, to Peter's chagrin, frequently used unconventional ways to enter and exit premises, locked or otherwise. He'd been perfecting that skill for years with the same enthusiasm he perfected his forging and sleight of hand skills and exercised the ability when needed.

In his exploration of June's, he now also found himself appreciating the skill of climbing. With surprising ease, he was soon slowly scaling parts of the building, considering alternative ways to make it to the ground if that were ever needed. The ornate building's architecture surprisingly offered him a variety of possibilities. He tried to stay away from the windows to avoid catching June's attention (the last thing he wanted to do was explain this endeavor) and felt pleased with himself at his agility. There was a small sense of excitement as he climbed, a welcomed feeling versus the sentiment of the earlier part of the day, and he breathed in the cool evening air, testing out his ability to get down or across the building with more speed.

He was just thinking about whether or not a neighbor might see him, dressed completely in dark clothing and suspiciously hanging off of the side of the opulent home, and hoped it was late enough to not attract anyone's attention, when he suddenly misjudged his distance from the thin ledge that bordered the start of the second floor. As he felt his grip slipping, he tried in vain to readjust and get himself another hold or footing. He failed.

As he fell, it seemed like the descent took place in slow motion, but at the same time it happened in a flash. He futilely reached towards a distant tree branch as though he could somehow grab it and swing to another landing. His fingers didn't even get close enough to brush against it.

He landed with a thud on the ground after the approximately ten-foot free fall, first landing awkwardly on his ankle and then collapsing to the ground on all fours. He groaned when his hands and knees hit the concrete below, unable to brace his fall.

He was in shock at first. He stayed in place on the ground, heart beating in his chest as he took a few deep breaths.

Then reality hit him.

"Dammit," he cursed out loud as he started to pull himself into a sitting position. He brushed the dirt and dust off his hands and started to do the same to his legs.

The first thing he noticed as he drew his knees up to sit was the pain in his ankle. It was throbbing with a sharp and persistent ache. He hissed in discomfort as he reached down to touch it. It was the same ankle he wore the anklet on, so it was hard to actually touch the joint directly. He moved it slowly, right and left, then up and down. While it ached, he was hopeful it was a temporary pain and wasn't seriously injured.

He then tried to quickly take inventory of the rest of his body. His hands were slightly scraped up and his knees felt similar, though a cursory look indicated he hadn't torn any clothing. After a moment, during which his heartbeat also came back to a normal pace, he considered that despite the aches and shock of the impact, he was likely okay, which was a relief.

The freedom and whimsy he'd felt moments before had vanished, now replaced with physical pain and a mix of emotions ranging from shame, regret, and irritation.

As he climbed to his feet, he winced. Clearly putting his full weight on his ankle was not a good idea at the moment. He frowned down at his foot in annoyance, as though it had failed him.

Then he stood there for a minute and gaped up at the wall from which he'd fallen. He eyed the distance between the lower part of the second floor and the ground, swallowing back a lump in his throat.

He then realized a critical fact. He had neither his phone nor keys.

"Dammit," he repeated, rubbing a tired and sore hand across his face. The earlier feeling of freedom was long gone. He suddenly felt stupid.

There were two options now. Option one: he could go through the front door, which required disturbing June to let him in, which then also required fabricating something about what had happened and why he was outside. Then there was option two: he could return the way he had gotten here.

He glared up at the building. A minute ago he'd felt not a care in the world.

Now?

Now he once again hated Peter's rules. That's what had gotten him in this situation to begin with. If he hadn't been forced to a one-block radius, and hadn't been required to think of an alternative way of distracting himself, then this never would've happened.

Reviewing his slightly scraped up hands, Neal let out a resolved sigh. He'd made up his mind. It was time to return the same way he had gotten here. For better or for worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Earlier that same night, Peter found himself feeling conflicted as well. The day had left him with the sensation of being both rattled and annoyed, despite the good outcome on the case. After all, reaching the stage of a case that included a suspect in custody was usually an indication of a closure in sight and would be a cause for celebration. However, this time those details were buried behind other more persistent (and aggravating) thoughts running through his mind.

He was at least thankful upon returning home to find the neighbors had canceled their plans to come over. El was disappointed, and while he offered her feigned disappointment as well, he was not and was sure she could see through it. It was a small blessing, since he knew he wouldn't have made a very good host that evening and wouldn't have enjoyed trying.

So instead of thinking about the apprehended suspect and next steps in the case like he typically would, Peter found himself physically and emotionally exhausted, focused on second-guessing his approach with Neal.

The image of Neal inserting himself into the takedown of the primary suspect replayed in his mind, climaxing in a spray of bullets that appeared just moments later only a handful of feet away. Even in replay, the mixed feelings of dread that felt like being punched in the gut and anger at direct orders being disregarded filled him with uneasiness.

He was thinking about this at the dinner table, feeling his blood pressure ebb and flow, as he forcefully stabbed his fork through a piece of cucumber in the salad in front of him. He raised the fork to his mouth, going through the motions of eating as he remained deep in thought. As he crunched on that piece of salad distractedly, he jabbed his utensil into his bowl again with similar force.

Why was it so hard for Neal to just follow the rules?

"Hon… Are you mad at your salad, or at Neal?" El asked with what appeared to be slight amusement.

Peter allowed a small smile as he looked up at his wife. She sat across from him at their dining table, eyebrows raised and a sparkle in her eye.

"You can tell I'm still mad?" he asked with a small sigh.

"Uh, yeah…" she responded, tone a little sarcastic. "You think it's not obvious?" She gave him a pointed look. "Not only have you not even registered a word I've said since we sat down, but you've been slamming and jabbing things ever since you got home. Speaking of which… No offense, but you've gotta find a better way to get your frustrations out."

"Before coming home you mean," he said slowly, stating the unspoken aspect of her assertion.

"I don't mean it that way," she replied. "My point is that you're clearly more stressed out than usual recently. But yes, it would be nice if you didn't bring all of that home with you…"

He sighed, setting down his fork and sitting back against his chair. "I know," he admitted. He felt a surge of guilt course through him. He never intended to let his stress at the office cast a shadow over his time at home. He felt strongly about that.

"It's okay," she said quickly at his change in posture. "Look, I get it. Work is different for you now. More responsibility. A _specific _responsibility."

"Yeah, but it's been a few months…" he replied, rubbing a hand along his jaw. "Not _that _long but enoughtime that I thought it would get easier. He just seems determined not to let that happen."

"Don't say that…" El started with a slightly chiding tone. "From my perspective, you have just as many good days as frustrating with him… You just tend to fixate on the bad ones, Peter. Give it time, and it'll start to be more good than bad."

"You think so?" Peter replied, frowning slightly. "You know, Reese warned me it would be like this. Before I signed those papers, he asked if I was sure and said something along the lines of 'prepare yourself to never sleep restfully again.' And it's not that I didn't believe him…"

El simply chuckled a bit and reached for her glass of wine. "Right…"

"Maybe I was a little overconfident," Peter admitted. "I figured, what could be so hard? Set rules. Set the consequences. Keep him busy. And let him learn." His brow furrowed. "I just don't know if he's learning."

"He is."

He rolled his eyes. "El, you don't work with him daily. You see him when he's here on his best behavior charming you for a free meal."

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't come here for the meals, Peter…" she replied with a small shake of her head. "And you know that too."

"Well, still. You've never seen him when he's in the field with me on days like today. Pushing every button I have."

"Peter, don't forget the other times when you've raved about how brilliant he is… There's been quite a few of those days too. In fact, remember last week? You spent the whole evening telling me how brilliant he is."

He shook his head, unconvinced. "Not today. There was nothing brilliant today."

"Well even so…" She ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. "From what you described to me, Peter, it doesn't sound like he was actually trying to push your buttons..."

"No?" Peter asked, tone a bit exasperated. "Then what was he doing? Simply trying to get himself killed?"

"No," she said firmly. "It actually sounded like he was trying to _help_."

"Help? Yeah right," Peter replied sarcastically. "How, El? By doing exactly what I told him not to? That's a big help."

"Helping in his own way, Hon. Maybe he's just not used to operating with boundaries."

"Well, that's pretty damn obvious. I figured that out on day one."

She gave him a look. "Did you tell him _why _you wanted him to stay back?" she challenged. She swirled the wine in her glass as she spoke. "Or did you just tell him to do it?"

"What's the difference? He doesn't need to know why," Peter replied, a little bitterly. "He just needs to listen. Your boss tells you to do something, and you do it. Period."

"That's not completely true, Hon…" El replied slowly. "Everyone should know _why _they're being asked to do something. Otherwise, they're no different than sheep. What are they learning from blindly listening?"

"Clearly nothing, since he isn't even listening."

She sighed at her husband's frustration.

"Rank and order…" Peter said, stabbing at his salad again.

El rolled her eyes slightly at him as she simply replied, "So just try it next time."

Peter looked up. "Try what?"

"Try to _explain __your reason _for asking him to do whatever it is." She watched her husband as she spoke and predicting his next statement, continued, "And yes, even on a crime scene, Peter. You can make it brief. Clearly just asking isn't getting through."

Peter exhaled slowly. "First of all, I'm not really _asking _him to do something, El_. _I'm telling him. And second, he should _know _it's because he can get hurt otherwise. He's not a trained agent. He just doesn't seem to care. The last case? Did I tell you about that?" He shook his head as the scene he was about to mention came to mind, the picture of it as vivid as though it had also happened that same day. "He didn't want to lose track of the guy we were tailing. But this guy was getting further and further ahead of us. I told Neal to wait, and that we'd have another chance to catch up to him. But no. Didn't listen. Took off and ran across West Broadway against the light, dodging cars left and right like an idiot." He took a deep breath. "Jones called him Frogger the rest of the day. He didn't even seem phased."

"You did tell me," she replied, raising her eyebrows at the briefer account of the occurrence that she'd already heard about. She remembered Peter's rant that night. "But if I recall the rest of the story, wasn't it _because _he stayed on him that you were able to get the images of that guy making an exchange that day?"

"That's his side of the story and not the point," Peter said with exasperation. He frowned. "Besides. We would have gotten that anyway. It was inevitable. The guy had an obvious pattern."

"I'm sure…. But as frustrating as it is, Hon…" El continued, "…I see a theme. Sounds like he had the case in mind each time he acted."

"It doesn't matter if it's got to do with the case, El. Either way he didn't listen to me, he took unnecessary risk, and that doesn't work with me." He raised his eyebrows as he reached for his own glass of wine. "And are you defending him?" he asked skeptically.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "You're not wrong to be angry, but I do think that you should keep in mind that he's actually doing something _for _the case, Peter. Even you have to admit that it's just a little bit different than when you've been mad about him going behind your back or lying to you for self-interested reasons…"

"A little different," Peter echoed skeptically.

"It is, Peter…" She frowned at him, raising her eyebrows. "Don't even pretend it's not."

Peter simply stabbed his fork into his salad again. "When do I pretend?"

"Not enough," she replied. She then gave a quick smirk as Peter looked up at her with narrowed eyes.

"Really?" Peter rolled his eyes in response.

"Get back on topic, mister… I thought we were talking about Neal," El replied, smile lingering. She then grew more serious. "He should listen to you," she persisted, letting out a soft sigh. "Just make sure he knows why. From my perspective, this kind of partnership is a new thing for him. And it takes time. He's used to looking out for only himself based on _his _rules. Consider that, will you? Do me that favor."

"Let's not have you talking favors and my CI in the same sentence," Peter replied. "You're already getting soft."

"Me?" She let out an audible laugh. "Really?"

"Really…" He raised an eyebrow. "I told you that you'd be the first to break. I knew it, that first morning he came over here…"

"First to break…?" she echoed, laughing a bit. "With Neal?"

"Uh-huh…" he persisted. "Like I said. You get the con side of him. He's conning you."

"Conning me…"

"Yup."

"And what side of him do you get?"

"The pain in the ass side," Peter responded, lips curving upwards into a slight smirk. "And let's change the subject," he suggested. "Neal's taken over enough of our dinner conversations recently."

"That he has…" She smiled. "Okay, you want to change the subject?" She raised her eyebrows and gave him a look. "Then let's get back to my original topic; the one you weren't listening to. I have another dinner party coming up…"

"Another?" Peter groaned slightly, though lightheartedly and more for show. "Really? Didn't you just plan one?"

"Really. And you've known about this one, Peter… For at least two weeks."

"Fine," he answered begrudgingly. "What do you need me to do?"

She smiled. "There we go. Here comes the start of a real conversation."

"I think I'd rather talk about Neal…" Peter said dryly, though the edges of his mouth curved upward again in a smile. "Go ahead, Hon. I'm listening this time."

* * *

An evening of restless sleep passed and in the morning, Neal didn't feel much better.

He awoke to aching joints and most notably a persistent pain in his ankle. As he again tested it, moving it back and forth while laying stationary in bed, he had to frown. It didn't feel right. Still, despite that lingering pain, he continued to hope it to be temporary.

Swinging his legs to the side of his bed, he stared down at his feet. What he saw caused him to sigh.

The ankle was clearly swollen. It wasn't just the side-by-side comparison that made that obvious to him. It was also the tracking anklet, which had grown incredibly snug over the course of the night.

Now, if possible, he felt even more stupid and foolish than he had the previous night. Climbing had been a fun relief at first, a welcome distraction at the end of an already disappointing and miserable day. It had liberated him from what was otherwise simply a house arrest. But instead of giving him the release he'd been looking for, it had resulted in an embarrassing and painful ending. A disappointing final chapter to a twenty-four hours he wished to erase.

As he climbed to his feet, he tested his weight on the ankle tentatively. It certainly hurt, perhaps even more than the previous night, but he supposed it was bearable. He could walk on it…

Moving more slowly than usual through his apartment, Neal went through his normal morning routine in the mundane motions of getting ready for work. A hot shower wasn't as relaxing as usual and walking made him wince. The few aspirin he'd popped before the shower didn't yet seem to be taking effect either.

As he hobbled around the apartment, he briefly considered calling in sick to work. He then quickly decided against it, dismissing the tempting idea. Peter would be skeptical. There had been nothing physically wrong with him yesterday. Peter would simply think he was trying to get out of paperwork or was making some sort of protest. It was very likely that his handler was still angry from yesterday, and wouldn't have much sympathy for a sick day request. In afterthought, Neal also realized he preferred not to spend the day alone. After ending the prior day in silent treatment, he did want to try to repair his status with Peter.

As for disclosing the injury… It didn't feel like an option. There was no way he could give Peter a good explanation for what had happened while on house arrest. He needed to gain points, not lose more.

So after slowly making his way downstairs, and then spending a few minutes chatting with June over a cup of coffee as though nothing was wrong, Neal made it into the office care of a taxi.

Walking was painful, so he was admittedly relieved when he finally made it to his desk and was able to sit down. Once seated, he stretched his ankle out underneath the furniture, hidden out of sight, wincing slightly as his joints painfully protested the movement.

He then eyed the very thick pile of folders on his desk, which hadn't been there when he left the previous day. It was very likely a gift from Peter, threat delivered as promised.

He glanced upward towards his handler's office and sighed, though for the first time he could recall, he actually didn't mind being sentenced to a day of paperwork. He didn't want to move and having an excuse to be unusually quiet at his desk was a relief and convenience. He hadn't even detoured for a coffee that morning, preferring to limit his steps to only those absolutely necessary, prioritizing this even above his usual morning caffeine indulgence. He rationalized the one cup at June's could suffice for today.

He was determined to make it through the day with limited movement, focused on the files that had been assigned to him.

However, the ironic relief of paperwork only lasted for about an hour before he found himself being beckoned to Peter's office.

The call came first as a sharp whistle from above the bullpen, which he found himself looking up at instinctively, before then cursing silently for allowing himself to respond to a summons akin to what Peter might use with Satchmo. The whistle was then followed by that classic two-finger point summons once Peter had his attention, and Neal found himself with a frown reluctantly pushing his chair back. So much for not moving.

Acting like nothing was wrong was no challange for Neal, so despite the strong objection his ankle gave to walking normally without favoring his weight to his uninjured side, he made his way confidently to Peter's office determined not to show a limp.

"Peter," he greeted with a bright smile as he entered the office. His handler was now standing by the side of his desk, back turned to him.

"Hey, Neal," Peter responded as he turned around. He gave him a tight smile in return and gestured towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Sit."

Sit, Neal repeated in his mind. Another Satchmo interaction. Without complaining, he moved to do so. His aching ankle thanked him as he took a seat, the weight on the joint alleviated once again.

"So… No more silent treatment?" Neal asked lightly, alluding to their last formal interaction when Peter had dropped him off at home the day before. He kept up his smile, despite his resentment of the silent treatment. He'd never admit it, but he hated that more than the lectures.

Peter simply raised his eyebrows. "You should be happy I chose silent treatment yesterday versus what I really wanted to do to you."

Neal swallowed, smile faltering just slightly as he leaned back into his chair as casually as he could. "Okay… Fair. On occasion I suppose I can take silent treatment."

"Good choice. But listen, Neal…" Peter started slowly. "I do want to talk about yesterday."

Neal internally winced. He sensed another sermon coming. Wasn't Peter's tirade the day before enough? He tried to mask the look of repugnance he felt arriving to his face. "Yesterday," he echoed monotonously, tone void of emotion. "But didn't we do this already, Peter?"

"Yeah," Peter answered. "We did. But maybe not the right way." He cleared his throat, moving from the side of his desk to the front, getting closer to Neal and leaning back to sit against the wooden fixture. "Yesterday… We can both agree that I got pretty mad…. Do you understand why?"

Neal paused. That was his opening line? Was that a trick question? Peter's delivery was calm and the tone seemed sincere, but this was starting out to be a very different discussion than usual. He rarely opened with a question. Unsure of where Peter was going with this, he tried to avoid frowning and quickly recalibrated. He decided to go for the answers that his handler was likely looking for.

"You were mad because I didn't do what you suggested," he admitted without hesitation. Wasn't that the crux of Peter's prior day reprimand? He wasn't going to try to change the facts. "When you told me to stay back."

"It wasn't a suggestion," Peter replied, tone sounding a bit weary. "You thought it was a suggestion?"

"No," Neal responded quickly, realizing his mistake. He sensed a potential turn in the calmness of his handler and again recalibrated. "I didn't do what you _told _me to do," he corrected. "It wasn't a suggestion."

"Right," Peter acknowledged, slowing folding his arms across his chest. He eyed Neal carefully. "But do you actually understand _why _you not listening made me particularly mad? In that specific instance?"

Neal was fairly sure he could guess why. He knew Peter enough at this point. And he also didn't want to belabor the conversation, so while his instinct was to explore a queue of more lighthearted responses that came to mind, he resisted. As much as he was ready to get back to his normal rapport with Peter, he knew the man wasn't there yet. So he kept to the script he knew Peter was trying to follow in a hope he could rush it along. "The guns," he replied mechanically. "He was armed." It was easy to give answers to a quiz that Peter had berated him with the answers to multiple times the day before.

"Yes," Peter replied, nodding slightly. He paused, as though surprised or caught off guard at Neal's direct candidness rather than objections or defense. "You ran directly into the crossfire, Neal." His tone remained calm as the reprise of the prior day lecture seemed to begin. "And I don't care that his gun was still holstered when you moved in. It doesn't matter. You're not an agent. That's not what your role is. You don't go playing hero. Understand?"

"I'm not an agent," Neal repeated dully. People here seemed to like to remind him of that fact. "That's not my role." He recalled how he felt during the previous day. Frustrated was an understatement. That feeling was coming back.

Peter didn't seem to notice the apathy of his response and continued to speak. "You have to understand that if I tell you to do something, it's for a reason, Neal," Peter continued. "Yesterday, I felt like you constantly ignored what I told you to do."

"I didn't, Peter," Neal objected. "I just—"

"No, let me finish," Peter interjected, raising a hand to quiet him. "That's how it felt, but I've been thinking about that too. Maybe I didn't do a good job of explaining to you _why _I tell you to do things a certain way."

Why? The words echoed in his head, and now Neal couldn't stop the frown that formed on his face. What was this? He wasn't even sure how to respond. He'd expected to be reprimanded, with a repeated list of everything he had done wrong, and had prepared to simply act apologetic. And if this was a precursor to that next stage, then he just wanted to get it over with. He glanced behind himself at the door fleetingly before returning his eyes upward to meet Peter's brown stare. "You explained, Peter," he assured his handler quickly with forced sincerity. "I understood."

"I know you were trying to help," Peter continued. He paused. "Even when you stupidly put yourself in harm's way." His brow furrowed slightly. "But here's the thing. Believe it or not, part of my responsibility in this arrangement is to keep you safe… And when you put yourself in the line of fire, like you did yesterday, it undermines that part of the job." He paused. "That's why you've got to listen to me. We're a team. We're not all individuals out there."

"I know," Neal responded, nodding.

"Neal, you say that… And I've spent the last few months trying to teach you that. But yesterday you disobeyed a direct order that had no room for interpretation and walked into a live crime scene. You _can't _do that. What is there to misinterpret about 'stay back'?"

Neal shifted in his seat, resisting the urge to fidget further. "I didn't mean to do that," he began. Then he shook his head. "I mean, I _meant _what I did, but I didn't mean to go against you. And I told you yesterday - it won't happen again." Neal acknowledged Peter sounded much calmer than yesterday, and appreciated that. He wanted nothing more than to move on from this, and for this not to turn into yesterday's more heated discussion. Stay on script, he told himself. Meanwhile, his ankle silently throbbed.

Peter continued, "Neal, this isn't the first conversation we've had like this. We go through this same song and dance, and I try a different way of getting through to you, and then a week passes, and you do the same damn thing on a different case... Remember what you did last case?"

Neal objected, "But yesterday was different. They didn't see him, and I needed to get his attention before he –"

"No," Peter interjected, shaking his head. "It's not different. You need to get that. No more hero complex. That's not your role. Why do I have to keep repeating that?" He took a deep breath and shook his head. "Neal, we could be having this discussion in a hospital right now. Or I could be having this conversation with a body bag. You were literally inches from the crossfire. Do you not realize how dangerous that was?"

"Probably as dangerous as your driving yesterday."

"Neal," Peter snapped, frowning irritably. "This isn't a joke."

"Sorry," Neal replied, pressing his lips together. He frowned. So much for staying on script.

"You could have been killed. And instead of realizing that, yesterday you made a joke about creating more paperwork and now you're joking again. Last time, it was the same thing but with three lanes of traffic. Before that was the incident with the fire escape. Do you see the pattern that I have an issue with?"

"Okay," Neal responded. He didn't know the right response, and didn't want to risk the wrong one. In his mind, risk was correlated to reward. In tracking down criminals, there was always going to be an element of danger. Even in White Collar. But he couldn't express that. Not now. Agreeing with Peter seemed safe. He regretted the paperwork quip from the previous day, but also still thought it was applicable. Peter frequently accused him of creating more paperwork.

"Okay?" Peter echoed, raising his eyebrows. "That's it? 'Okay'?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Neal started slowly, responding honestly. "I do get it."

"I want to make sure you really get it. I don't want to do this again."

"Then we won't," Neal replied, tone a little stiff. It felt like a lie. He knew he had a job to do. On the job, he would react if and when he felt the action was warranted and in the best interest of the case. He couldn't just stay on the sidelines. If he did that, he was useless. Useless meant no more deal. No more deal meant prison. But he knew he couldn't say all of that that. However, his next words he felt compelled to ask. "But this case, and the last— Didn't I help?"

Taking a deep breath before responding, Peter shifted his stance slightly, repositioning himself against the desk. In doing so, his foot briefly connected with Neal's injured one, and while it was a fleeting contact, Neal found himself swallowing back a hiss of pain. It lasted just a brief second before he could restore his cover and be stoic again.

Peter didn't miss it. He stared at Neal with new intensity. "Hey. What was that?" he asked.

"Nothing." Neal suppressed any reaction to the jarring pain he now felt in his throbbing ankle. Focus, Caffrey, he told himself. He barely bumped into you. Pull yourself together and stay on the damn script so you can get back to your desk. "You startled me."

As Peter studied him suspiciously, Neal suddenly realized the question he had just asked was not going to be answered. The window was gone. Had he been helpful at all? He wouldn't know. Was he in negative point territory? He now regretted his comment about Peter's driving.

"I startled you, " Peter repeated back the words skeptically as he frowned. "Seriously?" He scoffed. "Neal. Give me a break. You don't startle. "

"Sometimes I do," Neal answered. He paused, yearning to get back on the other subject and to close it out. "Peter, I get it, okay? I stayed home last night to adhere to your one block penalty, and you've already lectured me. Several times in fact. I hear you on your reasons, and I get it. I have a ton of paperwork to do. Which you'll probably also lecture me about not finishing. Are we done?"

Peter eyed him doubtfully. "So if I check your tracker, I'd see you stayed home last night?"

Neal's eyes narrowed slightly. "You didn't check already?"

"Should I check?"

Neal tilted his head and gave Peter a frustrated look. "Are you for real?" He was suddenly annoyed at himself for fearing to step outside the radius the previous night. Peter hadn't even checked? This whole stupid incident could have been avoided?

"I'm 'for real,' Neal," Peter said stiffly. "Should I check?"

"Go ahead," Neal responded, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "If that means we're done, and you'll let me get back to work, then by all means check."

Peter's brow furrowed as he continued to eye the younger man in front of him. "Or I could trust you, Neal..."

"Then trust away." Neal shifted back in his chair after the sarcastic remark, which he knew he should have swallowed back or at least toned down. "That's your prerogative."

"The attitude isn't necessary, Neal," Peter responded dryly. "Rather than a one-block radius, next time would you rather an alternative evening that includes an orange jumpsuit and a cell? I wouldn't have to check on anything then."

Neal bristled at the threat, jaw stiffening, but kept himself calm. He knew Peter was exaggerating with the threat, and it was always an easy card he could pull, but it still bothered him that he would have the power to do it if he chose. Rather than focus on that, Neal instead just shook his head and said coolly, "I told you there won't be a next time."

"No? Are you sure? Because something tells me you still haven't learned yet." Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. "So you want me to check your tracking data? I swear, Neal, if you didn't stay home…"

Neal sighed with obvious exasperation. "Obviously there are two equally likely scenarios, Peter. I either stayed in my generous one-block radius, so checking is a waste of your time, or I was within my normal radius, considering you weren't alerted otherwise, and successfully executed one of the most heinous acts of underground forgery and art trafficking that you could ever wrap your head around. Which one do you think summarizes last night accurately?" He didn't break eye contact as he spoke the words. "You've got a fifty-fifty shot of being right."

Peter didn't look impressed. "You done?" he asked with raised eyebrows. "Is this what we're going to do, Neal?"

Neal paused, regretting his series of quick statements. He was usually more calculated and controlled. He was way off script, and it was counterintuitive to his goal to move through this conversation quickly. Maybe it was the pain radiating from his ankle that was throwing him off of his usual game. "No, Peter… I'm sorry." He removed the earlier impudence from his tone. "To answer your question, I did stay home. You can check and that's what you'd see. Do you really think I wouldn't?"

Peter studied him, as though thinking. Neal didn't like the look on his face, because it was vague and one of the times he couldn't really read him. But he waited and didn't say anything else as the older man continued frowning at him.

"I'm glad you stayed home like I asked," Peter finally started to reply slowly. "And I won't check, because I am trusting you, Neal. But I need to know that you take it seriously… I can't have you be a liability, and if changing your radius doesn't seem serious enough to you to make you think, then I need to find another way to make you get it. Or else this doesn't work."

"I take it seriously," Neal interjected. The last thing he needed was Peter to devise another new form of consequence. "I get it," he asserted. Neal felt Peter was still looking at him strangely and suddenly felt uncomfortable. He found himself wishing he could go back to his desk. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Peter paused and then exhaled slowly. He shook his head slightly, as though thinking something over. "Because…" he said slowly. He then admitted, "El thinks maybe I don't always give you enough context. Hopefully now I have."

Neal raised his eyebrows, surprised at the comment. At the openness. This was as strange as the onset to this discussion. "Context?"

"On why I do things a certain way. Why I ask _you _to do things a certain way."

Neal dismissed the response, more focused on the other assertion behind the comment. "You talk about me with Elizabeth?"

"On occasion."

Neal reflected on that. "Am I like… your dinner conversation topic, or something?"

"Sometimes," Peter responded vaguely.

Neal paused, stomach churning just slightly. "Sometimes?" he echoed. "What does 'sometimes' mean? I don't think I like that answer."

"Well, too bad," Peter answered with a shrug. "When my wife asks what is stressing me out, I'm not going to lie to her. It's usually you."

"Me?" Frowning, Neal shifted again in his seat. In addition to the uncomfortable conversation, his ankle was throbbing. "That's not true, Peter. I don't stress you out."

Peter scoffed at that, letting out a low chuckle that made his shoulders shake and shaking his head. "Neal. You nearly got yourself shot yesterday. You do get that right? Or did I fail again at this conversation? So much for context."

"But I _didn't _get shot," Neal persisted earnestly.

"_Nearly _is a little too close in my book, and it should be in yours too," Peter responded, though his tone was softer. "As a general practice, we typically don't solve cases at the expense of safety… This is White Collar. You're more likely to get a papercut than shot. At least, that's what I tell El. Let's not make me a liar."

Neal didn't respond at first, more focused on the realization that Peter _talked _about him with his wife. He wondered _what _they talked about. How frequently? He would now have to see if he sensed anything different the next time he saw El. Any judgment. Did Peter only talk about when he messed up? Did El know whether Peter had second thoughts on their deal? In thinking about this, he grew distracted and began fiddling with the button on the cuff of his suit jacket.

"Neal," Peter said, breaking him from his thoughts.

Neal looked up as he cleared his throat. "I've got it, Peter," he spoke. "Safety. Procedure. No close calls. Papercuts only. All mentally noted…"

"Papercuts only," Peter muttered under his breath. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, shaking his head again as he got up from his spot on the desk and walked around the furniture to return to his own chair. He still seemed a little dissatisfied judging by the look on his face, but didn't say so. "Fine. I'm done, Neal. You can go back to your paperwork." He waved a hand towards the door dismissively. "I'll catch you up on the case a little later. I'm debriefing with Hughes in a few minutes."

As Neal rose from his own chair, he felt slightly mixed feelings. He wasn't completely confident that Peter and him were back on the same playing field as before, which he very much wanted. "Peter," he started, moving around his own chair to stand behind it, placing his hands against the top of it as he leaned forward slightly. He wanted the impact of the prior day to be a distant memory. He considered how to phrase his next question. "Are we… uh…"

"We're good, Neal." Peter looked up as he answered the unasked question. Studying him for a moment, he then added, "Neal, I'm past it." He paused. "As long as you understand what I told you and you can prove to me you can listen next time. I've told you before – I don't hold grudges. Just no dramatics today, alright?"

"Dramatics…" Neal slowly echoed the word. Peter's reassurance made him feel better, and he found himself more at ease as he tapped his fingers against the chair. "Sure thing, Peter. No dramatics. I'll cancel the order of dramatics I had scheduled for this afternoon right away. Lucky for me, I think there is free cancelation."

"Enough with the bullshit, Neal," Peter said as he shook his head, though he was starting to smirk.

"Not a chance of bullshit, Peter. Especially once I cancel the dramatics. Bullshit was an additional feature I had declined adding. I had good foresight I suppose."

"I said _enough_, Neal." Peter's tone grew firmer as he shot him a look, rolling his eyes. He pointed towards the doorway. "Go." It was obvious he was trying not to smile.

Neal smirked himself, letting out a small audible laugh. "Aye, aye, Captain," he answered with a sarcastic salute. He gave the man his classic grin and then turned to leave Peter's office, ignoring all the pain he felt in his ankle to force a normal paced walk down the stairs and back to his desk.

He hoped he could manage the rest of his day uninterrupted at his desk, but couldn't help but notice as he walked that the tracker felt even tighter than it had earlier.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: I did not have time to proofread this update! Will be doing so tonight so apologize for any typos or paragraphs that need to be reigned in. Sincere thank you to those who are reading.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

A few hours later, Neal had conscientiously gone through a few of the folders that had been assigned to him, with a highlighter in hand and a focused look on his face.

Peter walked towards him slowly, taking in the scene a little skeptically. Despite their earlier conversation, he found himself slightly quizzical of the apparent diligence. Active by nature, it wasn't common for Neal to stay at his desk for a long period of time. Even if assigned to responsibilities that equated to desk duty, he usually found a way to socialize, to make an excuse to step outside (like a coffee run), or at a minimum would occasionally meander back up to Peter's office to linger in his doorway to talk. He had developed an uncanny way of making Peter lose his focus, effective at getting them caught up in conversation before eventually being redirected.

Today there was none of that. He was head down, focused, and quiet. Each time Peter took a look across the bullpen, it was the same consistent image.

After a few months of working with the younger man, this was the least amount of movement he'd ever observed from him. At least during waking hours.

Peter briefly considered that he may have finally gotten through to the younger man. Was it possible? Had El been right and all that was needed was a discussion around the context of why things had to be done a certain way? And had he really successfully explained that the first try?

The feeling was fleeting. No, he realized. Their discussion was unlikely the reason for his quietness. And even if it was, their latest discussion certainly would not have done anything to address Neal's innate inability to sit still.

But still, he _was_ sitting still... And despite the fact it meant Neal was allegedly following his instructions without detour for once, Peter slowly found himself not just cynical but also actually missing the interruptions that he had grown accustomed to as part of their daily routine. For those reasons, after a handful of hours had passed, he found himself at that point venturing down into the bullpen himself.

"Hey," he said as he arrived within a few feet of his CI's desk. "Neal."

Neal looked up, pushing the current paperwork on the desk a few inches away as he turned his full attention to his handler with a smile. "Hey." In his hand, the highlighter turned, rolling across his fingers in a repetitive fluid motion.

"I see you've been busy." Peter nodded his head towards the documents. He examined Neal's smile. Neal used his smile for a lot of things, he mused. What underlying meaning could be there this time… He was still learning to read between the lines of Neal's expressions.

"Well…" Neal glanced down at the papers on the desk. The highlighter continued to turn between his fingers methodically. "It's a small mountain, Peter."

"I hope you realize you don't have to do all of those today," Peter told him pointedly. He briefly studied the heap of files, now clearly organized and split into separate stacks versus the original unorganized pile that had previously been left there. That morning, he had purposefully grabbed a larger than typical handful of folders to give to Neal, still annoyed from the prior day's incident and determined to be taken seriously on his threat of paperwork.

Pushing aside his thoughts from the morning and focusing on Neal's new categorization of the case files, he let out a soft sigh. He suspected that despite the organization effort that most of the files were untouched; in fact, he didn't think it was possible for Neal to get through it in one day, at least not thoughtfully, even if he tried.

"I think I can do most of this today," Neal responded, glancing over at the files in question as well, as though reading Peter's mind and rising to the challenge.

"Neal. This was meant to keep you busy the rest of this week," Peter pointed out, frowning slightly. "Not just today. If you think you're off desk duty after today, think again. And if you get through that—" he gestured at the papers, "—too quickly, then I'm going to need to find something else to keep you busy."

Neal responded with a wider smile. "Peter… Come on. I feel like finishing work early should be _rewarded_," he challenged.

Peter stared back at the blue eyes now fixated on him, now noticing they held a bit of a mischievous look, as he replied, "Rewards? Not likely. Especially when it creates more work for me."

Neal shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm just doing what I'm told, Peter," he said simply. "You didn't specify a time frame. Or anything really. You just left this on my desk."

Peter eyed him warily. Those blue eyes would be the death of him. "You want a timeline and instructions, Neal? That's interesting, since last week you made it pretty clear to me that you don't like micromanagement."

Neal pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "Touché."

Peter rolled his eyes and then cast another look across the desk and the mound of paperwork. He glanced at his watch and then back at his CI, who was still looking at him. "You want to grab lunch? I can fill you in on what Hughes and I just discussed. You'll find it interesting."

Neal paused, narrowing his eyes just slightly. "What?"

"The case. I told you I was debriefing with Hughes, and we have some updates. I'll tell you over lunch."

"Lunch?" Neal echoed, brow now slightly furrowing. "Right now?"

Peter noted that Neal actually looked genuinely confused by the offer. He realized he rarely offered off-premises lunch opportunities. Feeling slightly affronted, he defended his offer – rare didn't mean they were impossible. "Yeah. Lunch. You and me." He watched Neal's expression. Was it possible the younger man now looked conflicted? "What?" he asked, before a response was verbalized. "You don't want to do lunch with me?"

"Well," Neal started slowly. "I thought you were mad at me."

Peter gave him a look. "I was, and now I'm over it. I thought we just agreed earlier to move past it, Neal. I already told you. No grudges."

"I also didn't know you ate lunch," Neal continued.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know I do…" Peter replied, rolling his eyes slightly. "You've seen me eat lunch."

"Away from your desk?" Neal replied suspiciously.

"Neal. You've seen me eat away from my desk."

"Yeah, but that's usually an on-the-go dirty water dog or something equally unappetizing," Neal answered, furrowing his brow in disdain at the topic. "Not real food, Peter. No offense, but I'm not interested and neither are my arteries."

Peter sighed. "Not what I had in mind, Neal. And I do that… rarely."

"Rarely," Neal echoed, scoffing. "Uh-huh. Sure. If that's what you tell your wife, I'll stick to that story. A white lie never hurt anyone."

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly in return. "Anyway," he said, emphasizing the word with a slightly stiffer voice. "That's not what I'm offering. I was thinking we sit down somewhere. Nothing fancy, but…" he paused and gave a small smirk, "I promise it'll better than prison food."

"That's low, Peter."

"Isn't it just factual?"

Neal shook his head stubbornly. "No. And those jokes get really old, you know."

"Anyway. What do you say?" Peter persisted. "It's on me."

Neal pursed his lips, eyes shifting from Peter to the work on his desk. He looked hesitant and took a moment to respond. "Normally, despite the subpar attempt at humor and a reminder of the cuisine my palate was once limited to, I'd be up for it…" he started slowly.

"But today?" Peter asked. "And don't say you can't because of the paperwork. I'm your boss. I decide when you can go to lunch. All of that can wait."

"It's not that… But still, I can't…" Neal began very slowly. "Not today. Can I take a raincheck?"

"Why not today?" Peter asked.

"Because. I'm… fasting."

"Fasting," Peter repeated. Now his suspicion was heightened further. Silent at his desk, no activity all morning, and now fasting? He stared into the blue eyes that gazed back at him unblinking. They were void of any tell. "Why?"

"Well, that's a very personal question, Peter," Neal replied without pause. He gave Peter a critical look, as though the question was offensive. "It's for a private reason."

"Well, you don't get privacy from me."

Neal scoffed. "I don't think that's actually true."

"It is actually true, Neal. Privacy is a privilege." Peter continued to stare into Neal's eyes. The blue orbs steadily stared back, showing no sign of uncertainty. "So let me get this straight – the first time I ask you to lunch, you're suddenly fasting."

"That appears to be the case," Neal responded, exuding nothing but innocence. "It's unfortunate timing, Peter."

"I'd call it convenient."

Neal tilted his head, frowning innocently. "Convenient?" he repeated. "Peter, fasting is challenging. I doubt most would call it a convenience. You don't think I'd _rather _go to lunch with you?"

"I thought you were always looking for an excuse to step out of the office," Peter persisted. "Now after you've been glued to your desk all day, I'm offering you one, and you reject it."

"What can I say, Peter? If only it wasn't today," Neal replied with a small shrug. "Plus, I do have a lot to do… Maybe another day. I appreciate the offer."

Peter nodded slowly, studying his CI with increased skepticism though he tried to keep his face neutral. He realized, as he increasingly did, that there continued to be a hell of a lot for him to better understand when it came to his CI. Neal was commonly surprising him and presenting more complex layers. Often in good ways, as El would remind him, but sometimes in confusing ways. Like today. On another day, Neal would take any opportunity to get outside. He'd be thrilled for lunch. Now, he seemed unwilling to leave his desk, unswayed by the offer. "Sure. Fine, Neal. Another time."

Neal nodded and then, as though deciding that the conversation had concluded, turned his head back down towards the closest set of papers, shifting the folder closer to him once again.

Slightly suspicious, Peter left him at his desk.

Another day with Caffrey, who continued to be like a case file himself with more and more left to uncover.

* * *

Later than night, Neal faced a different angle of suspicion when he requested that Mozzie come over to his place. Mozzie had come without question, and upon arrival Neal quickly filled him in on his current state.

"You were doing what exactly?" Mozzie stared at Neal with a mix of weariness and incredulity. "And why?"

"You said, and I quote, that 'to be prepared requires preparation'," Neal reminded, a little disdainfully. "Don't you remember that discussion? We were _right here _when we had it." Seated at the table in his apartment, leg propped up on a second chair, he could still feel the lingering aches in his body from the fall, but mostly the throbbing pain in his ankle. Beyond the physical annoyance, he now also felt the need to defend himself as Mozzie promptly met his depiction of the prior night with skepticism, despite the fact that he was the single person that had suggested (indirectly or not) the whole thing.

If this was Mozzie's reaction, he could only imagine Peter's.

"I did _not_ suggest this," Mozzie stated.

It didn't escape Neal that while last night he had blamed Peter and his rules for his limited choice of activity, he was now displacing that culpability to his closest friend. "Didn't you?" he challenged, feeling slightly childish for the displaced blame.

"Hey. Don't you put this on me," Mozzie frowned, eyeing his younger friend with a shake of his head. He shifted his gaze over to the chair where Neal's foot sat, elevated with a large plastic bag filled with ice resting on top of it. "I didn't tell you to do that. Or anything like it." He then turned his attention to the large, generously poured glass of wine in front of Neal doubtfully, despite a similarly poured one in his hand. He paused. "By the way, overindulging in fermented grapes is probably not your best choice of care, Neal."

"I'm not _over_indulging," Neal objected. He reached for his glass at the mention of it and took a meaningful sip. "But I'm not going to pretend it isn't helping."

Mozzie shook his head again, giving Neal one of his rare unapproving looks. While he often offered advice to Neal, he rarely extended authority over him unless he deemed it necessary. Tonight was potentially turning into one of those instances.

'Come over," Neal had texted him. 'And bring ice." He had, not knowing why. He now felt silly to have originally assumed that the vague reference to ice would have something to do with cocktails. This was anything but a cocktail party.

Upon his arrival, a sure sign of something being wrong was Neal being casual. His knock was met by a verbal indication to come in, and in addition to the elevated, iced foot placed up on a chair, at only nine-thirty at night, Neil was already wearing a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of track pants.

"Don't give me that look," Neal told him, bringing him back to the present. "And going back to the reason for this… You did say," Neal continued, "to prepare and—"

"Fine. I heard you the first time, and I may have said those words," Mozzie interjected, recalling the story he had told the other night and the wisdom from it that he had tried to instill in Neal. A good discussion had resulted from his comments. But since when had Neal been so recklessly literal? "But, mon frère, had I known that it would lead you to a careless climbing expedition on your own residence… Then I might have reconsidered my phrasing."

"What do you mean by careless?" Neal frowned. He was irritated to feel chastised by his friend. He got enough rebukes at the office. Usually Mozzie was on his side. "How else would I prepare, Moz?" He shook his head irritably, feeling annoyed and in pain. "Not to mention that I lost my favorite rappelling hook."

"Prepare for what, Neal? You planning something we haven't talked about? And wait— You have a favorite rappelling hook?" Mozzie scoffed. "Since when?"

Neal narrowed his eyes and took another long sip of wine. Why was everyone so condescending today? "Yes," he answered monotonously. "I did."

"What are you planning that involves scaling buildings, Neal? Unless my memory is suddenly failing me, we don't have anything planned."

"I don't know _yet_. Isn't that the point of preparation?" Neal sighed. "Besides, I would think you of all people would agree that having an alternative exit from this place in the case of an emergency is not a wasted effort. Wasn't that the whole lesson of the story?"

"Fair point," Mozzie acknowledged. "Until you fell."

"Until I fell," Neal agreed. He eyed his elevated foot. "Exactly." He moved his ankle slowly under the bag of ice, which had been on the foot for almost thirty minutes now. "I think the ice is helping though. I can feel a difference."

"Do you really?" Mozzie challenged. "Or is it just numb?"

"Isn't that the same thing?" Neal gave him a charming smile but then added, "But seriously, I think it's better. I think the swelling has gone down."

Mozzie sighed. He wasn't comfortable being involved in medical assessments if he could avoid it, and wasn't sure why Neal had called him in. He was capable to acquire ice on his own. Since providing the ice, Mozzie had really done nothing more to help. Was Neal looking for assistance, comfort, or just company? Neal would never admit to any of those needs, even with him. He would instead operate under the pretense of good wine that he needed to share or a desire for conversation or anything else. Still, Mozzie wanted to ensure he could help if he could. "And you're sure nothing is broken, mon frère?"

"Pretty sure," Neal answered slowly.

"Pretty sure?"

"More sure than not. I can walk on it. It's just really swollen." Neal took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "It really swelled up today. Which I wouldn't worry so much about if not for…. You know."

"Your ball and chains."

"Yes." Neal rolled his eyes and then settled his gaze on the location of the anklet, hidden now under the bag of ice. "It was getting a bit tight… But the ice should take care of it." He looked up. "Thanks for bringing that, Moz. I didn't have much left."

Mozzie dismissed the courteous gratitude. "And you didn't tell the Suit?"

"No." Neal frowned and shook his head. "What would I say?" he asked skeptically.

"Didn't you say you 'trust' him?" Mozzie replied, tone a bit sarcastic. He was constantly giving Neal a hard time on opening up to the Suit, and here he was injured and keeping it to himself.

"Depends."

"Now it depends…" Mozzie couldn't help the sarcasm that laced his tone.

"You know everything I do is under a microscope," Neal said defensively. "And I didn't exactly earn any high scores the last couple days. Kind of the opposite." Neal shook his head. "What am I gonna tell him that would do any good, Moz?"

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "You could have just told him what you just told me. You technically didn't do anything wrong, Neal. Just ill-advised. An accident even."

"Ill-advised?" Neal narrowed his eyes again. "Moz…"

"You could have said you fell down the stairs."

"The stairs," Neal echoed with a roll of his eyes. "Like he'd buy that."

"Why not?"

Neal shrugged. He was less concerned about Peter buying that sort of story than the blatant dishonesty the excuse would entail. If there was one thing Peter had harped on the most over the last few months, it was the request that Neal always be honest with him. He'd never felt guilt about lying before, at least not white lies or lies that could result in rewards, but there was something about Peter and the look in his eyes when he spoke to him that made him feel completely exposed and gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach the minute an untruth started to form.

"Because he'd see through it," he told Mozzie simply, ignoring the thoughts in his head. If he told Mozzie he didn't want to lie to Peter, Mozzie would think he'd hit his head in the fall.

Mozzie looked skeptical nonetheless. "Well, whatever the reason… You should be able to tell him that you just need a temporary reprieve of the anklet from one foot to the other…" Mozzie shrugged. "That's a legal request. And I think it's probably necessary given its limited circumference…" He eyed Neal's covered foot skeptically.

"It would be a legal request," Neal agreed slowly. He continued to reassure himself. Even Mozzie had said he'd done nothing wrong. He'd stayed in his radius, and had no iniquitous intentions. Why did he feel so guilty about the situation though? Switching the anklet certainly was a legal request (he was pretty sure); it was a just not a simple one. After all, what exactly was he going to say? _Oh, hey, Peter, I was climbing June's brownstone wall and free-fell ten feet, busting my ankle; no big deal but would you mind removing my anklet? _That would go over great.

And after the last twenty four hours with Peter…

"What's the matter?" Mozzie asked, jarring him from his thoughts.

Neal looked up. "What?" He shook his head. "Just the damn ankle, Moz."

"You sure?"

"Well, and the anklet..."

"So tell him." Mozzie sighed. "Mon frère, you should know that there are very few things I would ever suggest you tell that man, but in this case do you really see an alternative? Would you rather do nothing and compromise your blood circulation? I wouldn't recommend that."

Neal paused. There was only so much he could explain to Mozzie. Mozzie didn't understand the dynamic he had with Peter at the office. And how it shifted. He felt like he was back in a probationary period. How could he explain that in the prior day he'd been afraid that Peter would potentially put him back in prison, and today Peter had just seemed…. Nice?

"I'll ask him tomorrow," Neal said. He decided one day without disturbing Peter and going off course would benefit them all. Tomorrow would be a fresh start. He took another sip of wine, which turned into more of a gulp.

"Well, in the meantime, if your foot starts to turn a different color…"

Neal shot him a look. Mozzie had a small smirk on his face, but the teasing rubbed Neal the wrong way. "You know, when you got here tonight, Moz, you reminded me that you are _not_ a medical consultant. So why are you now providing a medical opinion?"

"I wouldn't call it a _medical _opinion, Neal. I would call it simple common sense."

"Common sense, Moz?" He watched his friend shrug and was about to retort when there was an unexpected knock at the door. He cut himself off from responding as he turned his attention towards the entrance of the apartment.

He skeptically looked at Mozzie as they both went silent.

Neal spoke first once his friend met his eye. "I'm not expecting anyone," he explained softly.

Mozzie raised his eyebrows, but then shrugged. "June?" he suggested, nearly a whisper.

Neal shook his head. "No…" he replied slowly. "When I saw her earlier tonight she said she was leaving town for a couple days to visit a friend. She already had bags packed and was expecting car service a couple hours ago."

"Her granddaughter?"

Neal shrugged, looking towards the door with a frown. "It's possible. But I don't know why she'd come by so late…"

"You owe someone?"

"No," Neal responded in a hiss, giving Mozzie a look.

"Just asking…" Mozzie whispered back.

Their question was answered soon enough when another knock came, more persistent, followed by a familiar voice from behind the door.

"Neal," came Peter's voice, sounding stern and impatient. "I know you're in there. And if you're not, there's a conversation we need to have about your tracking data…"

Neal and Mozzie exchanged another look. Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Guess you don't have to wait until tomorrow," he mumbled.

Neal frowned. "What?" he mouthed.

"To tell the Suit about your condition," Mozzie replied in a soft tone.

Neal gave him a disgruntled look and shook his head. He then gestured at Mozzie to grab the chenille throw that was arranged over a chair in the corner of the room. Rolling his eyes but not questioning him, as another knock sounded at the door, Mozzie did as instructed and took the blanket from the chair, quickly coming back to Neal to drape it over his lap and the elevated foot, hiding both the foot and its ice treatment.

"You can let him in," Neal said as the blanket settled.

"You sure?" Mozzie asked. He gained a slightly protective stance. "I can—"

"No, Moz. He knows I'm here," Neal replied.

"As you wish…" With that, Mozzie strolled over to the door and pulled it open, as Peter was almost mid-knock again.

Peter's hand, curled in a fist to knock, hovered for a moment before dropping to his side. He looked at Mozzie, unimpressed.

"Mozzie," he greeted in monotone.

"Suit," Moz responded dryly with equal enthusiasm. He looked at Peter uninterestingly, taking in the man's brown suit attire, and then simply said, "Do you not make an appointment before stopping by this late?"

"An appointment?" Peter chuckled, looking into the apartment at Neal, who had as casual a look on his face as he could muster in the moment. He then turned his head back to Mozzie. "That's cute. But no. I don't need an appointment. Did you forget who your friend is?" He gestured at Neal. "Ward of the state? Convicted felon? In my custody?" He walked past Mozzie while closing the door behind him, muttering sarcastically, "Appointment…"

Mozzie rolled his eyes but didn't respond. He also didn't move to follow.

"What brings you by, Peter?" Neal asked casually as the man approached, giving what he hoped was a very nonchalant and welcoming smile. His pulse had increased slightly at Peter's arrival with a foreboding sense of apprehension, and he felt the throbbing of his ankle matched that rhythm. However, none of that breached his external façade of calm, composed self-assurance. Acting was a skill he cherished on a daily basis. But while he was effortlessly masking his expression, he was also desperately wondering why Peter was here.

"What brings me by…" Peter repeated slowly. He gave him a look, up and down, obviously giving him the once over. He somehow seemed slightly more at ease than his initial knocking had implied, as though Neal being was here in the apartment meant something, but only marginally. "Funny thing, actually…" he started. "Got a phone call." He paused. "Is your anklet working?"

"My anklet?" Neal genuinely frowned. "Working? Why wouldn't it be?"

"Exactly my thought..." Peter trailed off, frowning. "So when they called…. I told them you were with me." Peter walked towards him then, closing the gap between them. When he was close enough, he took an edge of the chenille blanket and yanked it, pulling it off of Neal in one swift movement.

Neal didn't move as the blanket fell to the floor, trying to hide the flinch that was more an automatic reflex than anything else.

Peter repeated his once over, now focused on the elevated foot and the bag of ice. "Neal," he said stiffly. "Explain."

Stay nonchalant, Neal reminded himself. "Explain what?"

"What's this?" Peter gestured to the elevated leg.

"I exceeded my limits exercising," Neal responded carefully. He was determined to downplay the injury, as doing otherwise would lead to needing to _explain _it. "What do you mean my anklet isn't working?"

"I didn't say it isn't working."

"You asked if it was."

"What kind of exercising?"

"I exercise."

"I have no doubt you do, Neal. Want to give me some details? What the hell did you do?"

A door opened and nearly slammed shut. They both looked up. Mozzie was gone. Neal frowned, a little frustrated that Mozzie would just ditch him like that, but he was also a bit understanding given Peter's presence. Moz was never very comfortable with any kind of law enforcement present. While he'd grown accustomed to Peter, it still wasn't completely symbiotic.

In the moment Peter turned away to view the door, Neal took the opportunity to sit up straighter, removing the bag of ice and placing it on the table. Attempting to downgrade the situation, he slid his injured foot off the chair to the floor, noting his whole leg and knee felt stiff from the prolonged extended position on the chair. He planted his foot on the ground and sat in the chair normally. He was totally fine. That's the image he would get across. But what was this about the anklet? He glanced down at the device skeptically.

"Why are you icing your foot?" Peter persisted suspiciously. "Are you hurt?"

"What was the phone call about, Peter?" Neal asked, frowning.

Peter narrowed his eyes at him slightly, appearing more inquisitive than anything else. "My questions first, Neal. What did you do?"

"Nothing, Peter…" Neal commented, frowning innocently. He leaned back in his chair and gave his handler a questioning look as well as he folded his arms across his middle. "I've been here all night. The anklet should say the same." He wasn't about to offer information without knowing Peter's full agenda. The man was here for a reason, and his response would have to address that carefully. But he needed the full reason to know how to act. "Why'd you get a phone call?" he asked again.

"You tell me." Peter then pulled his cell phone out from his pocket and quickly dialed, holding the phone up to his ear. He kept his eyes on Neal as he did so. "Jones," he spoke after a minute. "He's with me…. Yup…. Thanks for doing that…. Okay. Call them back." He paused, listening to the other side of the call. "No—I'll take it from here." He pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it closed. As he returned the phone to his pocket, his attention to Neal grew more intense.

"Neal," Peter started. "What—"

"Call who back?" Neal interjected, anxiety piquing, both at the words and the proximity of his boss. He tightened his folded arms around himself, chair feeling hard and uncomfortable beneath him.

"The Marshals, Neal…" Peter responded. "That's why I asked about your anklet." He moved to take the seat that Neal's foot had vacated a moment earlier, sitting to face Neal directly and giving him a curious look. "They said they were receiving a distress signal from your anklet. Any idea why?"

"Distress signal?" Neal echoed in surprise. Peter's question had no hint of judgment behind it. Maybe a little frustration. Or fatigue.

"Correct," Peter responded.

"What kind of distress?"

"That's what I want to know."

"I didn't do anything," Neal objected defensively.

Peter raised his eyebrows, studying Neal carefully. The look on the younger man's face seemed genuinely puzzled and even a slight bit concerned, particularly since Peter had referenced the Marshals. And that surprised response didn't seem fabricated. But something was going on. He realized his approach of simply questioning his CI wasn't going to get much more information going at this rate. Neal was easily circumventing all questions with ones of his own. So instead he changed his tactic.

Peter sighed and gestured to Neal. "Give it here. Let me see."

Neal hesitated for a moment. "Peter," he whined slightly.

"Come on. Show me," Peter persisted, reaching to tap two fingers again Neal's knee emphatically.

After a brief continued pause, as though weighing his options, Neal begrudgingly gave in. He shifted his posture, twisting in his seat to face his handler, and moved to extend his leg up, lifting it to rest his bare foot on Peter's thigh where the man pointed. Normally this exchange would be to replace or reinstate the anklet. Not for a wellness check, or whatever this would be called.

Neal sighed and tilted his head back, studying his apartment's ceiling as he waited. He winced slightly as Peter first took him by the heel to reposition the foot slightly. It was a gentle movement, but Neal's ankle disagreed.

Without a word, Peter then brusquely pulled up the cuff of the track pants, damp from the ice, to do a cursory check of the anklet.

Neal awaited the reaction he knew would come, unsure of what form it would take. There was no way Peter wasn't going to notice. If there was one thing Neal had learned, it was that Peter had superior attention to detail. No surprise as an investigator, he supposed, but nonetheless occasionally inconvenient. Peter's initial attention was on the anklet itself, the boxy part with the indicator, which was obviously green given he was in his radius. He studied that for a moment, as if perplexed why any distress signal could have happened.

But then the attention shifted to the ankle itself, and the strap around it.

"Neal," Peter began. He tried to dilute the frustration he felt building. "How long has your ankle been this swollen?" He ran his finger across the black strap of the anklet. Usually he could slip a finger between Neal's ankle and the strap. He always took close attention to its fit whenever he replaced it, ensuring it wasn't too snug. Currently the anklet was so constricted he wouldn't be surprised if a mark was left. He frowned as he touched the pale skin against which the device was so tight and repeated his earlier unanswered question as he looked up at his CI. "What did you do?" he asked, voice rising in a hint of wariness and annoyance.

"I didn't _do _anything. What's a distress call?" Neal tried to shift the conversation back to be less about him. He kept his head tilted back, now seeing spots on the ceiling.

"It's when there's an anomaly on the sensor…" Peter responded. "Such as extended periods of time outside of a normal temperature range. Given you had ice on the anklet, likely for an extended period of time… That's probably what sent the signal." He looked up at Neal, frowning. "Seriously, Neal. What happened?"

"The ice was temporary," Neal answered slowly. "It was helping." He was making mental notes about the new details of his anklet's sensitivity. He assumed the same thing would happen with extended exposure to heat. "Would the same thing happen with heat?"

"Probably," Peter responded. "Hey." His CI's attention span was to anywhere but him. "Look at me."

Neal rolled his head to the side, finally giving Peter his eye contact. He sighed.

"Enough about the anklet," Peter told him. "What happened?

Neal pressed his lips together, not sure how to answer. These were the details he'd been hoping to avoid. "I was exercising," he explained again. He felt it was an accurate depiction of the activity. At least not entirely inaccurate. He then started slowly on another tactic, trying to maintain a nonchalant tone. He felt a little vulnerable with his leg elevated on Peter's lap. The man's hand was still on the strap of the anklet, and he felt a bit frozen. "I meant to ask, Peter… If I needed to request that we move the anklet to the other foot temporarily…"

"You meant to ask," Peter muttered, tone hinting at annoyance. He studied the foot and the anklet once more. "How long has it been like this, Neal?"

Neal paused and then slowly started to respond. "Well… It's an interesting question…"

"Fine," Peter interjected. "I don't need to hear whatever half truth you're about to give me. You don't want to tell me?" As he spoke he gently took Neal's ankle in his grip in order to hold it while he stood up. He then replaced the foot on the chair to keep it elevated. Without talking he then went towards the kitchen.

"You didn't answer about changing which ankle it's on, Peter. Is there a process to do that…?" Neal trailed off as he watched Peter go through a few of his drawers in his kitchen. "Did you _pick _which leg to put it on or is it standard? I didn't pick." He remained expressionless when Peter located a pair of scissors despite suddenly feeling alarmed. "Peter," he objected, voice elevating slightly.

"Neal…" the man responded, saying the name with little emotion beyond a warning. Stop it, was what he meant by the tone. With the scissors in hand, he returned to the table, and moved towards the elevated foot. Before Neal could protest, he swiftly used the scissors to carefully but purposely slice through the band of the anklet. "There's your process," Peter said. "Happy?" He leaned down slightly to examine the now exposed ankle, running a finger over the clear indent in Neal's skin where the device had been too tight. "Dammit, Neal."

"Peter…" Neal's tone was now a little panicked as the indicator on the anklet dangling from his ankle immediately turned red. And blinking. Even though Peter had done it, Neal couldn't help but feel a surge of anxiety as the anklet did everything it wasn't supposed to do if Neal was behaving. "Why'd you do that?" he asked with a raised tone.

"Because I don't have the key with me, Neal," Peter replied stiffly. "And if I waited to go get it and—" he cut himself off as within seconds his phone started to ring. He reached to take the anklet in one hand, pulling it easily from Neal's ankle and taking a couple steps away as he answered the call, pulling his phone to his ear with his other hand. "This is Burke." He paused. "Yes, he's still with me…. Yes…. As we discussed… I had to remove it…. Yes. Replacement tomorrow is perfect. Thank you."

"Peter…" Neal said again, this time more softly, almost a question. He watched the man return the phone to his pocket and walk back towards him.

"Neal," Peter responded, more sternly. "Your ankle. I assume Mozzie is the only medical consultant you've seen. Can you walk?"

"Yes, I can walk," Neal answered defensively, rolling his eyes. "I was obviously walking fine at the office today, wasn't I?"

"Okay. Confirming what I suspected… That this didn't just happen tonight." Peter shook his head, giving Neal a disappointed look and scrutinizing him. "You did this yesterday? I thought you told me you stayed home like I asked, Neal."

"I did stay home, Peter!" Neal insisted.

"Well, you were in one piece when I dropped you off, weren't you?" When Neal simply stared at him and didn't answer, Peter shook his head again and sighed. "Is this why you didn't want to leave your desk today?"

"No," Neal lied. It was a white lie. "I had lots of paperwork to do today…"

"Right." Peter gave him a frown and then gestured to him to rise. "Well, now you're gonna have more. Get up, pal. We're getting it checked out."

"What?" Neal frowned, unsettled by that suggestion. "Why? I don't think that's needed, Peter." He shook his head as well. "Honestly, I just need to keep the ice on it. I'm fine." He kept himself still in his seat despite Peter's instruction to stand. As a general practice, he preferred not to see a doctor unless absolutely necessary. Doctors were a paper trail. Doctors asked a lot of questions. He didn't need doctors if he could handle it himself. Nothing was broken. He managed to walk on it all day. "I appreciate the concern, but—"

"This concern," Peter interrupted, taking a step closer to Neal with a stern look, "is the Marshals calling because there was something unusual with your anklet monitoring signal. That's serious, Neal. This _concern_ is me just now seeing that the anklet was cutting off your circulation." He waved the anklet in his hand in front of Neal's face, shaking his head incredulously. "Did you not notice, Neal?"

Neal's brow furrowed. "I noticed, but that's an exaggeration. My circulation is totally fine." It bothered him that the admonishment was similar to Mozzie's earlier skepticism. To prove he was as fine as he alleged, he removed his leg from the chair, setting his foot back on the floor normally once again and sitting up straight. It did feel good to have the anklet off. He stretched his foot slightly.

"I'd rather have a third party confirm you're fine. Get up," Peter responded unbendingly, gesturing with one hand for him to stand. "Up. We're going."

"Going where?"

Peter glared. "Urgent care, Neal. Get up." He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and let out a sigh. He took it out briefly to see the text from Diana. It was regarding the current case. He cursed internally at the timing. Why did the universe have to collide all these events? He returned the phone to his pocket and looked again at his CI, who remained unmoved in his chair. The sooner he could deal with this current problem, he could get back to the case. "Neal, come on."

"This isn't _urgent_," Neal objected. "Not at all. Whoever just texted you is probably far more urgent. Is it Elizabeth? I'm sure she's thrilled you're here rather than at home. Listen, I think the ice was really doing its job, and –"

"I didn't ask your opinion, Neal. Now are you capable of getting up or not?" Peter shot back.

"Yes," Neal responded.

"Then show me, or I'm going to get you up myself in a minute."

At Peter's challenging look, Neal responded with a disgruntled expression of his own but pushed himself up to his feet. "See?" He ignored the throb in his ankle as he set weight on it for the first time since earlier that evening. On the outside he simply smiled confidentially, showing his teeth. "Totally fine."

"Stand on one foot," Peter directed. He nodded to the ankle he'd just released from the constrains of the anklet. "That one."

Neal hesitated, smile wavering slightly. "What?"

Peter crossed his arms over his chest. The severed anklet dangled from his hand. "Apparently nothing's wrong. Do it."

Neal slowly shook his head. "Peter… What am I, a circus animal?"

"Can't do it?"

"I don't _want_ to do it."

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. "Right. Neal, whether you remember the details or not, when you signed yourself out on our little agreement, you agreed to make me your medical proxy. That means I get to make decisions – and guess what? I'm making a decision. We're going."

Neal tried to mirror the stern look. "That's a little overbearing, don't you think, Peter?" He couldn't hide his irritation. He began to wonder what control Peter actually had over his medical well-being. He had signed a lot of things to ensure their agreement and to guarantee his ability to step foot out of prison. He hadn't really thought about the medical responsibilities, despite assigning Peter and Elizabeth as his emergency contacts. Surely he had a choice in his own medical treatment…

"Get some shoes on," Peter instructed. "It's swollen enough that we need to get it checked out. If it's fine, then you can say you told me so. If it's not fine, then I guess you have a desk job for longer than we originally planned. We can stop back here in the morning so that—"

"Morning?" Neal's expression fell, confidence dwindling. "What do you mean by morning?"

"You're off anklet," Peter reminded, nodding his head pointedly at Neal's feet. "You know what happens when you're off anklet. You're not alone tonight."

"Peter, I'm only off anklet because you cut it off!" Neal objected, voice rising in a protesting whine, which he immediately regretted. He quieted himself but still felt his chest rise and fall in indignation. He hadn't intended to show emotion, but Peter's persistence was wearing him down, and this entire interaction was not something he'd planned for this evening. He'd planned for just Mozzie tonight, and ice, and a lot of wine, and then hoping all stars would align and he'd feel better tomorrow.

Peter uncrossed his arms and moved to drop the anklet in his hand on the table. It hit the wood surface with a dull thud. "I cut it off, Neal," he spoke slowly, in a low tone, "because you failed to tell me that it was cutting off your circulation." He turned towards the younger man and waited for a reaction. At none, other than an expression that looked more sulking, he continued. "When were you going to tell me?"

Neal shrugged, feeling heat rise to his face as he felt judged. His ankle chided him as well, throbbing with renewed vigor. He tried to think of something clever to say, but came up at a loss. He wanted to elevate his foot again and replace the ice, but also didn't want to admit it still hurt. He continued to downplay the injury instead, hoping they could reach a resolution where Peter went home.

"You weren't going to tell me?" Peter spoke again as his question went unanswered.

"There was nothing to tell," Neal replied defensively. "I didn't know that the anklet had some kind of temperature sensitivity. The thing didn't exactly come with a manual, Peter." He looked downward towards his ankle. "I didn't do anything wrong," he added. He looked back up and squared his shoulders, erasing the frustration from his face and bringing the self-assurance back. "I didn't break any of your rules."

Peter studied him silently for a moment. Then, voice remaining calm, he simply said, "Next time, tell me."

Neal's brow furrowed, a little unsettled by that response. He'd expected Peter to be angry. "Tell you?" he echoed.

"If you get hurt, you tell me." Peter let out an exasperated breath. "Don't hide it."

"I didn't hide anything."

"No?" Peter responded in frustration. He gestured towards the anklet on the table. "Then what's that?"

"You did that."

Peter sighed. "Neal, I asked you specifically at the office today what was going on. I knew there was something off with you. And you said nothing. You told me you were fasting."

"I was fasting," Neal replied. Because I didn't want to get up, he added the secondary comment silently.

"Did it happen last night?" Peter persisted.

"Yes…" Neal answered slowly, cautiously. He didn't have a good answer as to how. Mozzie had suggested stairs. That maybe wasn't so much a lie. It was due to the stairs in the sense he had opted not to _take the stairs _in order to get downstairs. That was plausible logic. He added, "But it's fine."

Peter eyed his wayward CI warily. Neal's blue eyes were conveying a stubbornness as he maintained eye contact.

It's not fine, Peter wanted to say. He wanted to get Neal to understand that hiding an injury from him wasn't okay. But he didn't feel like lecturing. It was also getting late. When he told El he was going to go check on Neal after getting the call about the anklet signal anomalies, he admitted to her he wasn't sure what he was going to find. Considering Neal's behavior – or lack of behavior – that day, he wasn't sure what to expect. She was sympathetic, but more concerned that Neal was okay than what hour Peter would return.

So Peter changed his tactic yet again. He dropped the tempting argument over his personal definition of 'fine' and instead focused on the evening's tactical next steps. "Look, pal. You know I'm not going to back down here, so let's just go get it checked out so we don't waste any more of our time." He kept an even tone of voice. "Let's just make sure it's only swollen, and then we can call it a night."

"I _know_ it's just swollen," Neal replied. "I'd put money on it."

"We're not betting." Peter tried to maintain as much patience as possible while he watched the wheels turn in Neal's head. He held up a hand to cut off the impending argument. "Don't start, okay? It's not my ideal evening either. But you're stuck with me until they replace the anklet anyway, and I am not staying here."

For a moment, Neal seemed to be deliberating in silence. "Fine," he then answered, sounding more sullen than resistant. He knew Peter wasn't going to give up, and persisting otherwise was futile. Peter wasn't simply going to leave as he'd hoped. There was no plausible exit strategy here. And he was tired. He glanced around the room, and then started to walk over the bedroom. "I just need to change and get packed."

"What?" Peter now noticed the way Neal favored his weight to one side as he walked, but it was barely detectable. He couldn't tell if he was still hiding the injury for his benefit, or if that was just being Caffrey. Neal didn't show weakness. "You don't need to change. You don't need to pack." He followed him into the next side of the room. "It's nearly ten o'clock. Put a sweatshirt or jacket on and let's go."

Neal turned and gave him an incredulous look. "Seriously?" he asked.

Peter's look back was skeptical. He didn't understand the reaction. It was as though he'd just asked the younger man to do something unthinkable. "What's the issue?"

"I can't wear this, Peter," Neal told him pointedly while gesturing down at himself. His expression implied that the statement should be obvious to anyone. "Let me change into something that I can go out in public in, and then we can go." His hands dropped to the drawstring of his track pants, pulling them looser and starting to pull them down, revealing the waistband of dark gray boxer briefs.

Before they got much lower, Peter stepped in impatiently. "Oh no. You can, and you will." He grabbed the waistband of the pants and pulled them back up over the slender hips, and not too gently.

Neal grunted at Peter's manhandling. "Peter."

Peter was unapologetic. "I'm taking you to urgent care, not a fashion show, Neal." While he wasn't completely surprised at the lack of modesty in front of him, given modesty wasn't something that defined their growing relationship, he certainly wasn't interested in delaying their departure much longer by entertaining wardrobe considerations at this time of night. He was hopeful for less than an hour at urgent care followed by everyone going to bed. His current attire was suitable for both those things.

Neal shook his head at him, frowning. "El was right about your fashion sense. No wonder she gave up. Some things can't be taught."

Peter ignored the jab, taking him by the elbow to turn him around. "I'm glad you and El can talk fashion. That's nice," he said dryly. He then steered Neal towards his closet with a hand on the small of his back. "Sweatshirt. Sneakers. _Nothing_ else. Let's go. I'm tired."

As Neal unenthusiastically looked for his sneakers, Peter felt the vibration of his phone again. He sighed and reached to withdraw it from his pocket.

It was another text from Diana.

Great, Peter thought in exasperation. He would much prefer to be on the case than Neal duty.

"Neal," Peter said sharply, looking up. He was moreso annoyed at the conflicting priorities than Neal at this point, but his tone didn't distinguish. "Let's go. One more minute, and I'm going to give you a real reason to need urgent care. Come on. I don't have time for dilly-dallying."

Neal turned back around, giving him a skeptical look. "Dilly-dallying?" he repeated, voice laced with sarcasm. "How does that rank compared to shenanigans? Plus, are you allowed to threaten me like that?"

"Yes, I am." Peter took a couple steps towards him. "I'm not kidding, Neal. In a minute it's no longer going to be a threat. Do you want to go barefoot?"

"No." Neal's smirk faded, mouth turning into a thin line.

"Then get your sneakers on and let's go. Now."


	4. Chapter 4

In a somewhat silent car ride, Peter drove to the urgent care location that he knew of closest to his home. He'd admit it crossed his mind while driving that he would have had a very different evening if he didn't have a CI within his realm of responsibility.

Another thought process that he kept to himself was that the decision to drive to this particular location came only after a brief internal deliberation of where he could even take Neal at that time of night. This internal debate took place on the descent down the stairs of June's townhome, when he realized that he knew limited late night health care facilities that weren't the emergency room. He preferred to avoid the ER if possible. As he recalled the one facility not too far from his home, he also decided that its location would help avoid the inevitable (and he'd admit likely logical and persuasive) argument Neal would attempt after the check-up about going back to his own home. If he'd chosen anywhere on Neal's side of the East River, the argument would be unavoidable and shutting it down would be that much more challenging.

Though the younger man said nothing, Peter could hear his sigh when they crossed the bridge. He clearly knew the argument he'd been planning to make would no longer be valid.

Peter wasn't thrilled about the situation himself. But he saw no other path forward now that the anklet was off. And he had seen no way to avoid cutting it off, other than leaving to go retrieve the key which would have cost more time in an already late evening and may have even spooked Neal. Getting Neal to leave with him to get the key could have gone a few different ways…

He considered whether he should carry a copy of the key with him more often.

At that consideration, he immediately realized Neal suspecting he had a key on him regularly could be dangerous. The kid had already several times proven that he could take Peter's wallet without his detection. It was playful each time, but didn't change facts. And no level of disapproval Peter had shown so far had been able to diminish the proud smirk Neal displayed each time he was successful.

Focusing on the present, Peter reminded himself that reflecting on other foregone options was pointless now; on the path he had chosen, he knew he would have to explain himself to Hughes, possibly fill out some paperwork, and who knows what else.

This was a first time in this sort of situation for him as well. Dealing with Neal, and the equipment that came with him, was actually well summarized by Neal in a statement he made back at June's: there was no manual.

And now, despite never imagining it, Peter had cut off the anklet. There was no going back. In the moment, he couldn't rationalize just leaving it on him, seeing how tight it was. Part of it felt like he was making a point. And if he waited to let a real medical professional take a look, likely the physician would do the exact same thing, so why not just get it over with?

He tried to explain that reasoning to his wife when he briefly left Neal in the waiting room of the medical office and gave her a quick call to provide an update on his timing. Leaving Neal meant enough distance to make a private phone call out of his hearing range while also keeping him fully in sight within a reasonable distance.

"Wait – You cut his anklet off?" came El's shocked response as he filled her in over the phone. "Peter –Why?"

"Hon, I didn't know what else to do…" he explained with a tired sigh. "It seemed like the right choice at the time. It was on so tight." He ran his hand through his hair, leaning against the hallway wall and eyeing Neal like a hawk through the glass doors. "He sat there at the office quiet all day, head down, focused. Meanwhile, I had no idea this damn thing was so tight on him…."

"Why wouldn't he tell you?"

"I don't know," Peter answered bitterly. "I don't even know what happened, though given his recent track record on self-preservation, who the hell knows. Meanwhile, I've got the other case heating up... Diana's tried me like three times tonight."

"Hon… One thing at a time. Did you ask him why he didn't tell you?"

"Not directly," Peter admitted. "I asked him what happened, but he was vague." He sighed. "Exercising apparently." His tone was skeptical. There were moments when he felt the upmost trust in his CI, even despite the relatively short duration of their arrangement so far. They worked so well together; he'd be the first to admit it. There were times Neal opened up, even came to him directly looking for guidance. Then there were other times Neal seemed completely closed off or would purposefully withhold information, causing Peter to be uncertain of his intentions. "I just don't understand how it happened while he was at home."

"Who knows," El continued. "Maybe something happened on the way to work, Peter. Accidents are random. Maybe he was going to tell you tomorrow since it was late."

Peter pressed his lips together and considered that. "I don't think it could've waited until tomorrow," he responded doubtfully. "He would've had to cut the damn thing off himself. And that would have been a nightmare. Not to mention the anklet kept sending a signal to the Marshals." Through the glass windows separating the hallway from the waiting room, he watched Neal sit diligently in the nearly empty area, head bowed over a clipboard. He appeared to be diligently filling out the paperwork that had been handed to him. "I'm sorry to have to bring him home tonight, El. But I can't leave him alone without the anklet. Hughes would kill me, and if anyone else found out…"

"So if not for Hughes, you'd leave him home?" He could feel El smiling through the phone line. "It's just the policy and paperwork that makes you feel the need to ensure supervision?"

"Sure. Let's let _him_ think that," Peter answered with a smirk. "Might go over better than the constant 'don't you trust me' debate that I find myself baited into…" He trailed off, eyeing Neal again through the glass. "Listen, Hon, it's not too busy here... We shouldn't be too long. I really don't think there's anything seriously wrong – but I just want to make sure. Plus it gives me a documented reason for cutting his anklet off."

"Of course. It's no problem," she answered calmly. "I've got some things to catch up on. I'll see you both when you get home."

"Thanks, Hon. Love you."

"Love you too."

He ended the call and with a sigh made his way back to the waiting room. He glanced over at the reception desk on his return to Neal and was thankful once again that it wasn't too busy. He settled back into the plastic chair next to Neal and nodded towards the paperwork. "You almost done?"

"Mm-hmm," Neal responded. He was a couple pages in, neatly checking boxes. His tousled hair was making a rare askew appearance, falling onto his forehead in bangs.

Peter watched his CI's diligence and suddenly felt suspicious. He eyed the paperwork for a moment, and as Neal moved to turn to the final page, Peter reached to take the clipboard from him. "Hey. Give me that for a minute." For being so reluctant to be here, Neal had been all too comfortable to fill out his personal information.

Neal let the clipboard go without objecting. He leaned back in his seat and said nothing.

Peter flipped the paperwork back to the first page. He scanned the information that Neal had filled out in perfect penmanship. Immediately he exhaled a sigh of frustration. "Neal…"

"What?" Neal looked up at him briefly through dark lashes before turning his gaze to a television mounted up on the wall. "I was almost done."

"Done?" Peter echoed. He tapped his finger against the first page of the clipboard. "This," he pointed to the first line of the form, "is _not _your name." He moved his finger to the second line. "This," he continued in exasperation, "is not your birthday. Or month. Or year."

Neal exhaled a slow breath, puffing out his cheeks briefly. He then turned his head to meet Peter's eye. "They're all accurate for a known alias of mine. And if you—"

"No, Neal," Peter said, shaking his head. He felt in the last few months he'd used the word 'no' more than he had his entire prior life.

"You should know that name, Peter."

"I do." Peter sighed again. "I do know this name, Neal. And it's not yours." He shook his head again.

"It is mine," Neal objected. "The paper trail on that name is solid."

"Solid…" Peter echoed incredulously. Then he returned to his point. "It's not your real name, Neal," he stated firmly. "This person didn't just have a US Marshals anklet cut off because of an injury. You did."

"The anklet has nothing to do with me being here," Neal pointed out. "You're the reason I'm here, because of a little swelling… And honestly, Peter, considering I didn't _choose_ to be here, I'd rather he – " he gestured at the paper – "be the one to have it on his medical record. Is that a big deal?"

"Did you just use the phrase 'honestly' with me while asserting you want to use a false identity?"

"Honestly is not a phrase," Neal corrected. "It is an adverb. And 'false' is a bit subjective, Peter."

Peter gripped his hands tightly on the clipboard. He couldn't imagine any other agent and their CI having an exchange like this. He couldn't even imagine any other agent personally taking their CI to urgent care, concerned about an injury. This is what he got, for crossing every line with this conman and letting him under his skin and permitting him to have a leash multiples longer than what anyone had advised him. He glared at Neal, who was now smiling at him. Smiling?

Hughes warned you… Peter reminded himself. Multiple times…

He glanced at his watch and sighed at the time. Patience, Peter… he reminded himself. He's right that you made him come here, for better or for worse. Despite the fact you could be at home with your wife right now.

Get this under control, he told himself.

Then he pointed a finger at Neal as he stood. "Do not move. Not an inch."

"I can't. Apparently I'm gravely injured and require urgent care," Neal responded with a shrug. He blinked at Peter with an earnest but clearly exasperated expression. "And where could I go? An inch sounds taxing."

Peter's pointed finger remained on Neal as he narrowed his eyes. He ignored the twitch in his hand that wanted to actually slap the other man and instead repeated, "Stay," in more of a growl as he walked back toward reception.

The older gray-haired woman behind the desk smiled at him as he approached. "Is he done with the paperwork?" she asked kindly. "We should be able to see him shortly."

Peter smiled sheepishly, swallowing back the anger that was meant for Neal and not for this woman who was simply doing her job. "Not quite," he admitted. "In fact, do you mind if I have a new set of forms? I'm really sorry, but he misunderstood a section." He cursed silently as he peeled back the erroneous pages from the clipboard in his hand and handed it back to her empty. Internally he felt his blood pressure rise. Would she buy his explanation? What was there for any person who could read at an elementary school level to misunderstand on these forms?

She frowned briefly but nodded, handing him a new clipboard from her desk with a fresh set of forms attached as well as a pen.

"Thank you." Peter took a calming breath, exchanging the new clipboard for the old and stepping away as he tucked it under his arm. He crumpled the erroneous papers in his hand as he sat down at the first available chair, roughly fifteen feet from Neal, and then balanced the clipboard of paperwork on his knee. He looked up briefly and caught Neal looking at him cautiously before quickly ducking his head to look away.

_Neither of us want to be here, buddy_, Peter thought to himself wryly. He then quickly began to fill out the form, realizing sadly he knew Neal's personal information nearly as well as his own. After chasing him for so long, learning everything he could about him, details like date-of-birth and social security were simple statistics he could rattle off. Hell, he even knew his shoe size, his belt size. Everything. He still questioned some of it, especially Neal's real birthdate given the lack of history from his childhood, but he honored what was official record as truth until he learned more.

After filling in the basic information including address and other personal information, he skipped the section on family history, which he was sure Neal had been amused to fabricate wildly on the previous form, and quickly wrote a description for the reason of visit.

Finishing, he got up and returned it to the woman at the reception desk, who thanked him and said it would just be a couple more minutes before someone could see Neal.

He then returned to the seat next to Neal, tossing the fictitious papers in a trashcan he passed on the way. He was curious to read what Neal had written, but also didn't want to give the behavior much attention. He'd learned attention was something Neal thrived on. Giving it for the wrong actions wouldn't be conducive to teaching him. As he sat beside the other man, he didn't get much of a reaction.

"They said it should just be a few more minutes," Peter told him.

"Great," Neal responded a bit despondently.

Peter waited a moment, and then after no further response, he deliberately moved his knee to bump it into Neal's leg. "Don't sulk," he told him. "And I get it now; taking liberty with those forms is fun."

Neal turned his head at the comment, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Peter met his gaze and continued. "I just gave you a new middle name. And I might have added some additional symptoms."

Neal's look transformed into suspicion briefly before he then looked nonchalant. "No, you didn't," he said doubtfully.

Peter shrugged. "Maybe I did. There was that section for 'other.'"

"Other like what?"

"Other like pain in the ass," Peter responded.

At the quick and sarcastic response, Neal's surly expression suddenly changed as his lips curled up into a smirk. His posture slackened slightly as he started to chuckle. Before he could verbally respond, he heard his name from the front of the room. "Mr. Caffrey?" called an older nurse. "We can see you now."

* * *

An hour later, Peter tried not to be annoyed that Satchmo and Elizabeth both looked more enthusiastic to see Neal arriving to their home than him. Satchmo's tail wagged eagerly as Neal leaned down to scratch him behind his ears, murmuring his name and a series of 'good boy' remarks.

"Hello, boys," El greeted as she gave Peter a quick kiss and gently squeezed his forearms in reception. She then turned her attention to their guest. "Neal, sweetie, I heard you got hurt?"

"Ah, not really. I'm fine," Neal answered, giving Satchmo one last rub before straightening to his full height. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you tonight, Elizabeth." He glanced at Peter briefly and then returned his look to her, exuding innocent sincerity. "But someone cut my anklet off and won't let me stay at home tonight."

"I heard," El responded, nodding sympathetically. "But you're never an inconvenience, Neal. Don't worry about it. Peter said you hurt your ankle. But he didn't mention what happened…" She glanced behind Neal at Peter, who simply shrugged. Neal still hadn't told him the details.

Neal shrugged as well. "It's nothing. Urgent care even said so."

"That's actually _not_ quite what they said…" Peter disagreed with a slight shake of his head. "They said it was quite swollen. And they said it's a grade one sprain."

"Which they can do nothing for," Neal pointed out.

Peter exhaled a tired breath. "They wrapped it for you, which helps with the swelling. And it was better to check, Neal."

"I knew it was nothing," Neal muttered. He started to pet Satchmo again, diverting his attention.

"Does it hurt?" El asked.

"A little when I put weight on it," Neal admitted as he scratched under Satchmo's chin. "But it shouldn't take long to heal."

"Well, you're putting weight on it right now. Shouldn't you keep it elevated?" she asked. "Come inside and make yourself at home." She gestured towards the other room. "Come on in and sit."

"It's late," Peter commented dryly as he slowly followed them into his living room. He watched El guide Neal to the couch and tried not to be exasperated. Of course she was now going to complete baby him. Meanwhile, it had been his evening that was inconvenienced. "Maybe we should all consider calling it a night." He glanced down as his cell phone started to vibrate yet again.

"So what else did they tell you?" El asked Neal, watching him sink down into the couch. "Anything you need to do?" She sat down beside him.

Neal made a face. "Not really. Despite Peter's insistence, I'm fine, Elizabeth. I even walked on it all day."

Peter bit back his desire to point out that that's precisely why the ankle had swelled so much. Instead he kept on the theme of the conversation, while slightly distracted by the text message from Diana that he now read, holding his phone in his hand. "They told you to do something, Neal," he responded with a sigh. He looked up from his phone. "RICE?"

Neal's expression of displeasure continued. "RICE," he echoed. His tone was sarcastic. "Good memory, Peter. Who texted you?"

Elizabeth glanced between the two of them. "RICE?"

"Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation," Neal rattled off the doctor's recommendation, defining the apparently common acronym for sprained ankle treatment in a monotone voice. "Is that Diana again?" he asked Peter, nodding towards the phone.

"It's nothing," Peter responded, pocketing the device. It wasn't nothing, but given he'd already brought a big part of his workday home with him, he could spare his wife a discussion about work.

"Elevation," El repeated. She reached over and took one of the throw pillows from the couch and put it on the coffee table directly in front of Neal. "Then up you go. Here."

Neal obeyed and lifted his foot to rest it on the pillow. Peter frowned as he watched Neal adjust his sneaker-clad foot on his furniture and decorative accessories.

"Is that better?" Elizabeth asked.

Neal looked up at her with a thankful and somewhat pathetic look. "Yeah. Thank you, Elizabeth."

"No problem, sweetie," she answered. She paused. "You said ice." She glanced behind them. "Peter. Will you get him some ice?"

Peter's eyes narrowed slightly, but he caught himself before giving into the gut reaction, even noticing Neal now smiled somewhat smugly. So much for returning home and getting a restful evening. Elizabeth was now in full-fledged mother-hen mode with an injured Neal. He should have expected that, bringing him here.

"Ice. Sure," he replied stiffly, reserving his other comments to be silent. He left them to walk over to the kitchen, approaching the fridge with a sigh. He opened the freezer door and peered inside, quickly locating an icepack towards the back, which had last been used when he'd overexerted himself at a summer picnic three years ago playing a casual game of baseball and had needed it to ice his shoulder.

As he grabbed that and shut the freezer door, he heard his wife's voice call out, "And ice cream, Peter. Bring some of that ice cream of yours that he likes."

Shaking his head, Peter walked back into the view of his wife and Neal with only the ice pack in hand. "He doesn't need ice cream, El. It's nearly eleven o'clock at night." He ignored the fact that they both looked at him in disappointment with similar blue eyes. He walked over to Neal and handed him the ice pack. "You don't need ice cream, Neal."

Neal took the ice pack and shrugged. "I don't disagree, Peter. I also didn't need a trip to urgent care, but clearly that wasn't relevant."

Peter braced himself, keeping calm at the sarcasm for a countless time that night. He then noticed his wife's yawn at that moment and rather than responding to Neal's insolence decided simply to state the obvious once again. "It's late."

"It is," Elizabeth agreed, running her hands over her jean-covered thighs with another yawn, which she then tried to catch in time to stifle it with her hand. "I didn't actually realize it had gotten so late. I've got a big day tomorrow, so I'm probably going to head upstairs. But I'm glad I caught you both."

Peter nodded. "Thanks, Hon. Sorry to keep you up. I'll be up in just a minute."

"Sounds good."

As Elizabeth left, Neal shifted his eyes towards the window on the other side of the room, but could suddenly feel a strong gaze on him, a gaze that once again for a countless time saw straight through him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay – say it… What'd I do now, Peter…?"

"Nothing," Peter told him, chuckling softly. "Nothing, Neal…. Hey – Look at me," he directed. He waited, watching the brief hesitation on the younger man's face before finally Neal eventually obeyed, turning his head, deep blue eyes shifting to meet Peter's brown. Peter then continued to talk, lowering his voice so to keep the discussion between the two of them. "Now listen… I know you don't want to be here, but you're off anklet. You know that's the deal. I don't like it either. And you know what I'm going to say next."

"Yeah, Peter, I do. You do realize you're kind of a man of routine."

_Routine_? Peter thought to himself. Did they now have a routine when Neal was at his house? Instead of reflecting on that he replied, "Do you though? Because normally you've got the anklet on when you're here."

"And that means what?" Neal gently placed the unused ice pack on the coffee table, ironically next to his foot, which it hadn't yet touched. "What do you think I'm gonna do, Peter?" He smirked just slightly. "I'm not going to go anywhere, and I've already inventoried your valuables. On that one by the way, keep in mind my motto – if it's been gone long enough and you don't miss it…"

"Funny…" Peter replied dryly.

"So what'd Diana say?" Neal asked, skillfully changing the topic. As Peter started to frown, he persisted, "I know it was her texting you. You had the same expression each time you got a message from her tonight. What's going on? Is it something on the case?" Neal asked. "Maybe a new case?"

Peter studied him. He considered his responses. Neal looked a little too eager. After a pause, he responded, "You want to know the plan?"

"Of course," Neal replied, genuinely look interested. He sat up a little straighter.

"So here's the plan…" Peter set up the anticipation, slightly amused by Neal's heightened attention but schooling his features. He then slowly delivered his next line. "Everyone, including you, is going to bed." Peter saw a flash of annoyance cross Neal's face and he held up a hand to squash any start of a protest. "Don't, please. No whining. It's late. What were you expecting me to say?"

"You can't tell me when to go to bed."

"That's funny. I think I just did." Peter gave him a look, but then added, "Don't forget the first word the doctor said was 'rest', remember?"

"Rest," Neal echoed. "Actually, I think his first words were 'hello, I'm Doctor Stevens."

Peter simply shook his head. "Enough. Then the deal is we'll get up early, stop by your place, go to work, and get you back on anklet. Then the case." Neal didn't look convinced, and Peter studied him, uneasy. "Neal."

"So you won't tell me about the case until I'm under lock and key?"

"That's not what I said, Neal." Peter shook his head again. "We can talk about the case tomorrow. It's too late, and I'd like to talk to my wife for at least five minutes tonight if that's okay with you."

"You could have been home tonight," Neal pointed out. "They did nothing at urgent care, just like I suspected would happen." He shifted under Peter's look as it grew sterner. "These are facts, Peter."

They were facts. Peter couldn't disagree. "Neal, I needed to take you there not just to make sure you were okay, but at the least to get paperwork that substantiates why we have to pay for a replacement anklet for you. Get it?"

"Paperwork?" Neal now looked incredulous. "If you just needed a medical report, then Mozzie could have had that to you by the morning and saved all of us the time."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Not what I want to hear, Neal. That friend of yours—"

"If you have time to comment on my friends, you have time to tell me about the case," Neal interjected.

At that, Peter moved around the coffee table slowly and lowered himself to sit on the couch next to Neal. He ignored Neal's slight recoil from him and shifted closer. He stayed quiet for a minute, thinking over his words as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder. He then said, "We're not talking about cases tonight, Neal. But I do want you to think about something."

"Thoughts are involuntary, but I'm open to a topic," Neal replied.

Peter paused, musing on the response for a moment. It was often Neal would deliver a candid response like that, causing him to pause and question the way his CI's mind worked. But he was determined to get his last word in for the night and get upstairs so he continued. "Do you know where you'd be right now if you were anyone else's CI?"

Neal answered monotonously without delay. "Home."

"No. Not at home. You're smarter than that," Peter persisted.

"Okay. So the answer is _not_ at home," Neal replied.

"You set your anklet off, Neal."

"While technically I can't argue that, Peter, you said it was a signal anomaly."

"So let's call it that. You think the Marshals ignore signal anomalies?"

"It's explainable." Neal paused. "You could have also just called me to ask."

"I was on my way home when they got in touch with me," Peter answered. "But if I called… What would you have told me over the phone?"

Neal opened his mouth to respond and then paused. "I'm not sure," he admitted truthfully. He smirked slightly. "What specifically would you have asked?"

Peter shook his head, sighing. "Neal…"

"No, I mean it," Neal replied earnestly. "It's a valid question. If you just called to gauge how my evening was going, then sure, I might not have mentioned anything…" Neal said. "But had you specifically said there was a question on the anklet, then we could have talked about it."

"Talked about it," Peter repeated skeptically. "How about you being honest with me?"

"I wasn't dishonest," Neal replied. "And if you called, you could have been honest with _me _about what your intention was…"

"Neal, let's cut to the chase here."

"Please."

"When the Marshals called me – what do you think would have happened if I told them you weren't with me?" Peter paused, waiting for Neal to respond. When he didn't, he elbowed him gently. "Let's say I didn't come over tonight. Let's pretend I got the same phone call, but instead I said I wasn't with you, and I didn't know what you were up to. Following?"

"Easy plot to follow."

Peter found the nonchalant tone of Neal's response slightly infuriating but didn't comment on it. He continued, "I'll tell you what would have happened, Neal. Someone would have come over to make sure no one had tampered with your anklet, but it wouldn't have been me." Peter paused. "They probably would have entered your place armed, assuming the worst."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Okay, Peter." He leaned back, sinking slightly into the cushion behind him, exuding a posture of exasperation. Then he suddenly frowned. "Wait— did you think I tampered with it?"

"I hoped not," Peter admitted briefly, registering Neal's furrowed brow before continuing his earlier point. "Once they put their guns away—" he ignored Neal's repeat of an eye roll, "—and checked on your anklet, what do you think would have happened next?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Neal replied. "You're on a roll."

Ignoring the tone, Peter said, "I'll give you a hint. You wouldn't have spent thirty minutes at urgent care and an evening at a Brooklyn brownstone. You know where you would be tonight?"

Neal let out a deep, husky breath of impatience. "I don't know, Peter. Let me guess. Somewhere worse?"

"Somewhere worse," Peter muttered, in disbelief of Neal's indifference, shaking his head. "Yeah, Neal. Probably a holding cell down at the office until they could get you a new anklet, and that would likely only be after hours at the ER waiting for someone to check you out. Probably in cuffs. Does that sound worse?"

"I don't know," Neal responded as he tilted his head to look at Peter, voice calm and steady but eyes bright with impishness. "Would someone be lecturing me there?" he asked.

Peter didn't respond. Instead he pursed his lips and just eyed Neal solemnly.

"And," Neal continued, "could James Bonds have been the one at the ER instead of Neal Caffrey?"

It wasn't lost on Peter that if Neal were someone else's CI, he wouldn't have to practice this extreme patience and deal with this inconvenience. He wouldn't have to put up with this lack of respect. He tried to remind himself Neal did this on purpose. _He's just testing you_, El had told him when he ranted about Neal's impudence once recently. Testing what? had been Peter's incredulous response.

"And," Neal persisted, "would there have been ice cream?"

Peter glared at his CI, and worked his jaw. He waited a moment, processing his thoughts and using all his restraint to keep his hands to himself, all while maintaining eye contact. Those impudent blue eyes, challenging him. "You want to find out?" He looked at Neal with a challenging stance of his own. "Let's find out. Not too late for you to go to lockup. Since you're so curious."

Neal smirked. "Nice try, Peter. You're not going to drive me there at close to midnight. Didn't you want to talk to your wife?"

Peter chuckled. He shifted his position to get access to pull his phone out of his pants pocket. "Oh, I don't have to drive you. That's what Jones and Diana are for. In fact, they might even have a race to get here to see who can get the opportunity to put you behind bars for the night." He smiled.

Neal's smirk faltered for a moment, eyes shifting from Peter to his phone, then back to Peter's gaze again. He then put his smirk back in place and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Peter shrugged and dialed a number into the phone, pressing call. He stood up from the couch then and put the phone to his ear, turning his back to Neal for a moment and taking a few steps away. He listened to the first ring, waited another second between rings, and then turned back around to gauge the situation.

Neal was no longer slouched back with arms crossed. Instead he now sat up straight, at the edge of the couch with his hands planted next to his sides. His smirk was gone and instead he watched Peter warily. "You're bluffing," he said assertively, though this time he didn't sound so sure. "And it's not funny."

Peter shook his head and shrugged. "You wanted to see the difference, Neal. So you'll see the difference. You don't want to be here anyway, right?" He paused then on the third ring. While unbeknownst to Neal, the voicemail from his own office with his own voice began on the other end of the phone. Ignoring it, Peter started to talk. "Oh, hey, Diana… Good, you're still up! Listen, I need a favor… Can you make it out to Brooklyn?"

Neal got to his feet then, glaring at Peter with contempt, walking towards the front door. He ignored the throbbing ankle, which reacted to the quick movement in protest.

"Neal…" Peter called out disapprovingly, watching Neal's movement across the room in a mix of amusement and satisfaction. He continued the act and spoke into the phone, "One minute, Diana." He dropped his hand, phone at his side and took a few steps in his CI's direction as the younger man got closer to his front door than he was comfortable with. "Hey, Neal. Stop." He realized then that Neal wasn't going to the front door, but to the stairs. "Hey!" he said more firmly, observing with satisfaction that raising his voice caused Neal to stop in his tracks. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm telling Elizabeth," Neal responded huffily. With a hand on the railing he remained still, but looked ready to continue his movement up the stairs.

"Neal…" Peter resisted chuckling as he ended the phone call, cutting off the voicemail he'd erase tomorrow, and returned the phone back into his pocket. His frustration with Neal was somewhat softened by his amusement that Neal would go to El over such an empty threat. He shook his head at his CI. "You're not waking up my wife," he said. He had noticed the close relationship the two of them had started to grow, and suddenly realized there might even be things his wife knew about Neal that he didn't. "I also didn't realize the great Neal Caffrey was so damn gullible."

Neal eyed him suspiciously. He watched Peter hold up his now empty hands. "I knew you didn't call her," Neal responded then, a self-assured look replacing the uncertain one from moments ago. He took a step back to stand by the door, half cocky and half sheepish. He stuck his hands into his pockets. "I was just playing along."

"Right… By heading to my bedroom to complain about me to my wife…" Peter said slowly. "Okay, smart guy."

Neal glowered slightly, seemingly attempting but failing to try to hide it behind a mask of disregard as he made his way back towards the couch. Peter noticed his slight limp as he moved across the room. Neal collapsed back down on the couch and frowned.

"So I guess it is better _here_ then, huh?" Peter answered. He stood a couple feet away and crossed his own arms over his chest. "Before you complain, you should consider what my other options are."

"There are always other choices, or else it wouldn't be an option," Neal responded with a shrug. He leaned forward and picked up the ice pack from the coffee table, examining it.

Peter watched him, wondering if he was considering using the ice pack or was simply using it as an excuse not to make eye contact. "You want to sleep down here or in the guest room?" he asked. He watched Neal gesture at the current couch and nodded. "Okay. I'll bring you a blanket." He was about to turn away when Neal's voice interrupted his train of thoughts.

"Peter?" Neal began, his focus continuing to be on the ice pack.

"What?" Peter frowned as he turned.

Neal sighed and then rubbed one hand over his face, the other balancing the ice pack. "If you hear the door tonight, I don't want you thinking… you know. But I might just need air. At night. It doesn't mean I'm going anywhere."

Peter watched him, feeling a slight pang of something that he couldn't quite place. "That's fine, Neal…" he said. "If you do, take Satch with you."

Neal nodded and smiled slightly. "Of course."

Peter glanced at his watch. He could see the exhaustion on Neal's face and was feeling it himself.

He left the room without another word to briefly go upstairs to retrieve an afghan from the closet. He then returned to Neal, who was in the same spot he left him. He tossed it to him.

"One more thing," he started.

Neal looked up as he caught the blanket. "I thought you already gave me your parting thoughts, Peter. What else do you need to lecture me on?"

"Nothing like that," Peter responded. "Just decided I'd give you one hint about the case."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Might require a brief trip outside of the city…" Peter responded. He anticipated the reaction and was not disappointed. Neal's face lit up, lips spreading to reveal his pearly white smile. Unlike the previous parts of the night, this time it looked completely genuine.

"Really?" Neal asked.

"Really," Peter responded. He realized Neal's excitement made him feel content.

"So you might want to rethink that anklet replacement tomorrow, Peter," Neal noted, leaning forward to replace the ice pack on the table. "Might just make sense to—"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Peter interjected with a shake of his head. "Let's handle one thing at a time."

Neal nodded, continuing to smile. "So this trip… Do I need a passport?"

Peter gave him an incredulous look. "Neal… No. I'm talking out of the city. Not the south of France."

Neal just shrugged. "One can only hope."

"And who said you're coming with me?"

Neal tilted his head to the side. "Peter… You're not that cruel…"

"Good night, Neal," Peter responded, rolling his eyes. "Think about what I told you."

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Peter couldn't help but let out a deep breath as he got into bed, relieved to finally be at the end of his day. He supposed it was more of a groan than a sigh. It was hard to decide whether the noise was driven by fatigue, frustration, or relief. Perhaps a combination...

"Hey… What's the matter?" El asked softly, rolling over with a rustling of blankets. "Took you a while to come upstairs."

"Took a while to deal with him…" Peter replied gently. He pulled his side of the blankets over his torso. "Sorry if I woke you."

"No… You didn't. You guys talked?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd call it talking, El. He seems to prefer banter."

"Oh, so do you…" she accused, smiling in the dark. "You enjoy that…"

"Not this late. And not when I'm trying to make a point. I'd prefer respect."

"Trust me. He respects you. Banter is his way of figuring you out."

Peter rolled his eyes a little bit, staring up at the ceiling in his darkened bedroom. "Yeah. Right. Your whole psychological theory on him testing me." He was quiet for a moment, and then slowly asked, "Speaking of his psychology… You don't think he'd leave tonight, do you?"

"Leave?" she echoed, a little surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Leave the house…" he said slowly.

She paused at first, as though puzzled by the question, and then slowly responded, "I don't really know… You tell me, Peter. Did you give him a reason to leave?"

"Reason? No. But I'm giving him space." Peter continued to stare up at the ceiling of their bedroom. "I mean, what am I supposed to do…? Handcuff him to my furniture?"

"Don't be ridiculous." She reached over and touched his arm. "Peter, he's stayed over here before without incident many times. Hell, you started calling the guest room 'Neal's room'."

"I know. But when he's here, he always has the anklet on," he pointed out.

"So you don't trust him?"

"I want to trust him," Peter replied slowly. "And I trust him more than I did a couple months ago." His tone was cautious. "_And_," he stressed the word like he was trying to convince himself, "he definitely knows what would happen if he did leave."

"What would happen?"

"Well, first I would catch him, and then I would kill him…" Peter answered, tone sardonic. "And then after I dealt with him, our arrangement would be over. And maybe my career."

"Oh, Peter… Don't say that…"

"El, it's true. I've got just as much to lose here as he does. I put a lot on the line with this agreement. He messes up, and it's on me. It's one thing when he plays games with his semantics, and another recently when he's been pushing the limit during cases, but there are certain lines he cannot cross."

"Have you told him that?"

"He knows," Peter responded, insisting to himself that Neal did know by now. He yawned. "I just normally don't think about it as much because we have his invisible fence to fall back on."

"Well, his invisible fence will be back tomorrow. It's one night."

"You sound so sure."

"You want to go back downstairs and go with your idea handcuff to furniture?" she responded with slight exasperation.

"Is it horrible I started to think about what furniture would even work? I mean, unless it's fixed to the ground or wall, then he—"

"Peter," she objected. "Stop."

He chuckled slightly, reaching over to squeeze his wife's hand. "Hon, I would never actually do that… Threaten it, yes. But I don't think I could actually do it."

"Good."

"Besides, do you know how easily he slips cuffs, Hon? I'd probably have to use duct tape."

"Stop…" she replied, though she laughed softly. "Go to sleep."

With that his wife turned over, a signal that it was the end of the conversation. Peter took a deep breath and willed himself to fall asleep, rather than listen for any hint of movement downstairs.

* * *

Peter woke early the next morning to his alarm with a feeling of apprehension and fatigue that undoubtedly revolved around Neal. It was a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. During a hot shower, he reminded himself that going downstairs first would change nothing if Neal had left. He might as well go through his routine first.

He considered that he hadn't heard any noise during the night, at least nothing that had drawn his attention. He then considered that this one fact didn't mean anything. This kid was damn good at sneaking around and even better at running. He knew without a doubt that Neal already knew his way around the house like it was his own. Hell, Peter had seen him skip the stairs that creaked on his way up or downstairs like it was second nature.

If he had run, Peter convinced himself it would simply be to go home. To sleep in his own bed. It wouldn't be to _truly_ run. That's at least what Peter continued to tell himself. He would find him quickly. It seemed silly to risk being in trouble to simply sleep at home, but Peter knew when Neal wanted something, even something that seemed trivial to others or to make a self-dignifying point, he would find ways to stretch the rules and truth to get it. He'd probably even have a good rationale to offer.

And if that were the case, and he found him at home, Peter wasn't sure what he would do next. He would be truly disappointed. There would have to be consequences, because that was Neal's biggest issue, but Peter's methods for punishment were a short list beyond the easiest actions (threatening paperwork and shortening his radius) unless he got creative. Maybe a night locked up would actually be more effective. He wasn't sure. And he wasn't sure he could do it. With the goal to keep Neal out of jail, he knew putting him behind bars, even under his own controlled timeline, would be hard.

And if he wasn't downstairs, and he wasn't home… Peter wasn't sure what to do then. While he boasted his ability to find Neal with ease, it wasn't quite the case. He wasn't sure he would know where to start this time. Mozzie would be the first call. His stomach turned at the thought. How would he explain leaving his CI off anklet without supervision? He could already hear Hughes… Sure he had brought him home. But he hadn't really supervised him…?

Dammit.

What should he have done? Had Handcuffing him to his furniture really been an option?

Today was also the day Peter had to turn most of his attention to their current case. Which would, as he noted to Neal the night before, involve a tip out of town. Neal had seemed excited about that prospect…

Too much thinking for this early, Peter told himself irritably. He cursed as he turned off the shower water.

Peter quickly finished getting ready, going back to his bed one last time to give his wife a kiss. He was up earlier than usual this morning, so they wouldn't share their typical breakfast together.

He slowly made his way downstairs with a sense of foreboding. However, walking into his living room, that feeling was quickly replaced by a sense of relief, as the scene presented itself. Neal was fast asleep on his couch, curled on his side with the afghan haphazardly wrapped around him as though he had struggled with it in the night.

Of course he didn't run, Peter told his previously foolish self. Why would he run? He has no reason to run.

He felt only slightly guilty for thinking it earlier. He studied Neal's sleeping face, wondering at how sleep erased all hints of a clever conman, all those crafted expressions, and left a genuinely innocent, peaceful, youthful Neal in its place. The real Neal, without the walls. He'd never thought of this version of Neal those handful of years back, sentencing him to prison. The thought of him sleeping on his couch or having to take care of him never once crossed his mind back then. Now it was a common recurrence.

"Neal," he spoke in full volume as he moved to the couch. Peaceful and endearing or not, they were on a schedule, and this wasn't a bed and breakfast. He found himself going to Neal's legs first, pulling back the tangled blanket and then reaching down to hike up the sweatpants from his ankle. At least by sleeping, he'd by default kept his foot elevated. He admitted the ankle did look much better, and wondered how much was due to the tight bandage wrap they had skillfully applied. It was when he briefly touched the ankle that Neal began to wake, stirring slightly.

Peter stepped back and watched him.

Neal squirmed into a full-blown stretch, his limbs spreading out on the couch as he untangled himself from the blanket, accompanied by a fatigued, brooding look on his face. The smooth peacefulness in sleep from minutes ago was replaced with a scowl. He looked at Peter with full blown skepticism, hair in disarray.

"Morning. How you feeling?" Peter asked. He glanced over towards the corner of the room where movement caught his eye. He spotted his dog, also rising and stretching.

Neal cleared his throat as he continued to study Peter for a moment, as though slowly registering where he was. Then as he wakened further, his emotional walls appeared to build back up. The scowl melted away, replaced by a placid, expressionless look. "I'm good," he said softly, pushing the blanket off to his side as he sat up straighter. "What time is it?"

"Early. Ankle good?"

"Yeah," Neal replied, glancing toward his feet a little perplexedly, exhaling tiredly. As they spoke, Satchmo walked over the pair, tail wagging eagerly. Neal yawned and reached his hand out to comb his fingers through the dog's fur.

"Good. Then get up. We've got to go." Peter watched Neal turn himself, legs moving to allow his feet to meet the floor. The younger man's hand remained fixed to the canine, petting him as though in a tired trance. "You need anything here before we go to your place? I just need to let Satchmo outside, and then I'm ready to go."

"No breakfast?" Neal asked. "Where's Elizabeth?" He stopped petting the dog, who then moved to lick his hand.

"She's sleeping," Peter answered. "No breakfast. We can get something on the way to the office."

Neal nodded slowly, yawning again. As Peter walked away, Satchmo quickly followed at his heels, and Neal slowly started to get to his feet.

Peter exhaled as he made his way to the kitchen. He felt guilty to feel relieved at Neal's presence, and silly at his thoughts during his shower. He opened his back door with a sigh, rationalizing those feelings to himself as he watched Satchmo eagerly run out into the chilly morning air.

* * *

At Neal's, Peter was pleasantly surprised for the second time that morning as he observed the younger man take the stairs up to his apartment without any hesitation or sign of pain. Last night he'd noticed some favoring of the injured side. This morning it appeared gone. He wondered how much was an act versus he was truly healing quickly. While he hated to have an 'I told you so' on the injury not being a big deal, he'd much rather have a partner in one piece than have a prolonged recovery.

In the apartment, Peter gave Neal ten minutes to get ready as he glanced at his watch. As early as they had risen, he still felt pressed for time to get to the office. There was a lot to do on this case. After distractedly telling Neal to get ready within the time frame, he immediately focused on his phone and started to draft a note to Diana to have the team in the conference room at nine to regroup on next steps.

"Ten minutes?" Neal echoed incredulously, making no indication that he was aligned with the urgency that morning. "Peter. You realize I got more than ten minutes to shower and dress in prison, don't you?"

"I doubt that," Peter responded as he took residence on Neal's couch and sat down, finishing the message to Diana. "Even you." He glanced up to see Neal still just standing there and shook his head without sympathy. "And you're now down to nine and a half minutes. C'mon, Neal. Don't waste time."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I bet you took more than a ten minute shower this morning. In fact, you gave Satch more than ten minutes outside as well."

"Neal." Peter tapped at his watch. "Eight minutes. I'm not kidding. Go. We've got a lot to do today." He returned his focus to his phone as he spoke, pressing send on the message to Diana with a sigh. "More than a lot to do."

"I wouldn't know because you've told me next to nothing about the case," Neal replied.

"You want me to keep it at nothing?" Peter retorted. He looked up. "I have other things to occupy you that aren't this case, Neal."

Neal's frown intensified.

"I'd rather have you on the case though," Peter replied coaxingly, sending him a look. "Which you'll learn about with everyone else at nine."

Neal sighed but resignedly walked away. Within a minute, Peter could hear the water from the shower turn on.

In six minutes, Neal was back, dressed in a pressed shirt and suit, shoes on, wet hair starting to curl at the edges.

"See that?" Peter told him as he ignored the less than impressed look on the face of the young man standing in front of him. It wasn't quite a scowl, but he seemed on the verge. Peter felt slightly amused in response. "You're ready. With time to spare no less."

"Hooray for me," Neal responded despondently. "I left time to stop for coffee."

Peter shook his head and smirked. "Don't be silly. I'll make some at the office. No need to pay or waste more time. Let's go."

Neal opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again as Peter was already heading towards the door. His expression was one of chagrin, but he followed Peter with a sigh.

* * *

Peter glared at the traffic ahead of him, trying to remain optimistic that they would make it to the office on time. His eyes alternated between the clock and the cars ahead of him periodically.

Meanwhile, he reminded himself it was always worthwhile to use his time in the car with Neal opportunistically. While he had once joked to Neal that not having a car was a poor life choice, putting jokes aside he was somewhat relieved Neal had never pushed for one. Not only was it one less thing to worry about, but while Peter was driving, Neal was more or less his captive audience. Barring jumping out of the car at a red light or stop sign, which Peter knew had actually crossed Neal's mind more than once, there wasn't much of an option to leave the vehicle until they reached their destination.

"So… you still haven't told me how you hurt your ankle in the first place, Neal," Peter started approximately three blocks into the drive. He still wasn't sure why the answer to that question was being protected like a state secret, but he figured he would try again.

Neal tossed a tired glance Peter's way, seemingly slightly exasperated at the question, before shaking his head slightly and moving his hand to reach for the radio dial. "So? Does it really matter?"

Peter glanced at the hand as it fumbled with the dial to change the station, watching him in short glances from the road. Once Neal had settled on a station, he moved his own hand to change it back. "No. But is it really such a tough question to answer?"

"No," Neal responded. Peter watched out of the corner of his eye as a moment later Neal's hand returned to approach the dial again. Neal added, "I just don't see the relevance."

"Neal…" Peter raised his hand from the wheel, ready to swat the infringing fingers if they entered radio territory again. The way he said his name stressed two meanings. First, answer the question, and second, hands off the radio.

Neal's outreached arm hesitated for a moment, wrist staying just out of reach, before he gave up and dropped his hand to his lap. "It just happened. I twisted it. And it's fine now."

"Just happened while you were doing what?"

"Nothing. I was home."

"Nothing doesn't usually result in injury, Neal."

"Statistically true. But this time it did."

"Neal…"

"I was exercising. In my radius," Neal responded. He sent Peter a look again. "End of story."

A moment of silence passed between them. Peter wanted to persist, but he also knew to pick his battles. He gripped his hands on the steering wheel and refrained from asking again. He supposed it wasn't his business, despite his own personal opinion that anything to do with Neal was his business.

Neal was the one to break the gap in conversation a moment later. And then the conversation turned somewhat unexpectedly. "Peter… What if we don't replace the anklet right away?"

Peter was glad they were at a red light as the question caught him off guard, and he felt a sense of surprise at the inquiry. He gripped his hands even harder on the steering wheel before he gave Neal a long sideways look. "And what do you mean by that?"

"If we're going to go somewhere on this case, wouldn't you take it off anyway?"

"Depends. And I didn't commit to you going anywhere…" Peter replied.

"You implied."

Peter chuckled slightly. "You want to talk about what _you _imply?"

"My point is… what's the harm in keeping it off for now, if you're only going to take it off for the case anyway?" Neal asked.

"What's the harm in putting it back on?" Peter challenged. "It doesn't hurt you."

"I didn't go anywhere last night. I could've."

Peter felt a chill. Could've. He didn't respond right away.

"You probably don't even know whether I left the house or not," Neal continued.

Peter didn't. He hadn't heard anything. It took him back to his thoughts from earlier that morning. But he wasn't going to admit that. "You don't get to choose when it goes back on, Neal. It goes back on as soon as it can."

"But –"

"But nothing. One of the conditions of your release, as you're very well aware, is the anklet. I'm not having any discussion about it. Reminding me how much leverage you have to go somewhere without it…?" Peter continued. "Wrong argument. Not helping your case." The light turned green and he slowly accelerated. "I told you last night. I trust you. But this is part of the agreement. Which you negotiated."

"There's a show tomorrow." Neal paused after he made the simple statement. Peter glanced over and could see him fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. "I want to go. But I can't with the anklet."

Peter rolled his eyes briefly, keeping his eyes on the road. "Where, Neal?"

"Outside my radius."

"Obviously. Where?"

"It's in New Jersey." Neal said it slowly, tentatively.

Peter immediately scoffed. "No. Not happening. The only river you get to cross is the East and only to one location: my place. You're not crossing any other rivers unless it's with me for a case, and you're sure as hell not leaving the state."

"Peter, it would only be for an hour or two, and if there's no anklet you don't even have to make any radius exception, so I thought—"

"No, Neal," Peter said firmly. Neal didn't respond right away and Peter glanced at him. While he masked it well, Peter knew he was stewing inside. He knew because he'd had discussions like this before with Neal, which usually resulted in Peter feeling like the bad guy. He wasn't trying to be the bad guy. But rules were rules.

"It doesn't just come on and off," Peter persisted, filling the silence. "You know that."

"It's already off."

"And I cut it off, I know," Peter said. He calmed his tone to sound more sympathetic. "But an agreement is an agreement. You wear that piece of hardware with little to no exception. Exceptions are undercover cases where it needs to come off and, apparently now with new precedent, medical emergencies."

"It wasn't a medical emergency," Neal responded bitterly.

"Call it whatever you want then," Peter answered. "It was a rare exception. It's going back on as soon as we get the replacement, which is likely once you step foot into the office. If it comes off for the case, then that's one of the exceptions."

Neal didn't respond. He just shifted in his passenger seat, head turning towards the window.

Peter glanced over, feeling the silent sulk radiating off of Neal, though appreciative there was no follow-up argument. "You have the rest of your life for art shows," Peter told him. "While you work for the FBI, you're on a limited social and geographical radius."

Neal's response was a long exhale.

"Not to mention you get more scenery than most people would with your sentence," Peter persisted. He didn't know why he felt the continued need to defend his decision.

Neal continued to remain quiet. He reached over for the radio again.

"Why's this only coming up because your anklet is off, Neal?" Peter sighed. He reached to lightly swat the hand away from the radio. "You never mentioned any interest in going to some show in Jersey before today."

"I did," Neal replied, a little stiffly. He dropped his hand into his lap. "Three weeks ago actually. When we were at the gallery in SoHo following up on the lead for the post-impressionist replicas." He turned his head and stared at Peter. "Which you probably don't remember me mentioning because you all but fall asleep whenever I mention anything of the sort."

"Don't be silly," Peter answered, rolling his eyes and chuckling softly, though he would admit Neal's penchant for chatting about art did at times cause him to zone out once it strayed from what was actually relevant to a current case. Neal could at times be a walking, talking encyclopedia, proud to share his knowledge if given the opportunity. "I'm sure I was listening, and I'm also pretty sure I told you no."

"Then forget about it," Neal continued. "I just thought to ask. I know you don't appreciate the subtleties of these events –"

"Neal, the answer's no, no matter how you spin it," Peter interjected. "So save your breath."

"Fine. But you should know that these shows only happen at certain times in certain cities, Peter. In certain years. It's like telling you not to watch the playoffs because you can read about it the next day."

"Now you're comparing apples to oranges," Peter sighed. "That's not the same."

"Agree to disagree. Not going to argue with you." Neal reached out then and turned the knob of the radio, changing the station as well as turning up the volume, the car speakers now loudly pumping out rock-and-roll. Peter didn't stop him this time.

Peter glanced over at him as he neared a stop sign, and could see Neal's frustration building. Someone else might not have noticed, but Peter had studied him for too long. He could see his posture had stiffened, and he was just barely noticeably working his jaw. For that, Peter left the station, but reached to lower the volume just slightly. Compromise.

He told himself to ignore Neal's reaction. Rules were rules. But he was irritated at himself for feeling guilty about saying no. But he knew it was the right answer. As he'd reminded Neal before, while you're serving out a sentence for breaking the law, you don't get the luxuries of going to events you want to on a whim. That was part of the consequence. Still, something tugged within him. He'd never expected at his early stages of investigating Neal that he'd ever feel empathetic for this person, nor that he'd actually feel an inclination to make exceptions for him.

He tried to push back against the part of him that was becoming a pushover.

So much for using the car ride to press Neal on how he had hurt his ankle…

"What if someone came with me?" Neal spoke up suddenly then.

"You mean someone other than Mozzie?" Peter replied sarcastically.

Neal rolled his eyes back. "Yes."

"Well, it sure as hell isn't me," Peter continued. "And good luck getting someone else at the Bureau."

"What about –"

"Nope, not El." Peter could feel the glare. "Neal, listen… When you want to do something, think to yourself, would you be able to do it in prison? If the answer is no, then table your complaints, please. The things you _can_ do far outweigh the things I'm sticking to the rules on. You know that."

Neal didn't answer, becoming quiet again.

Peter cleared his throat, focusing on the road. "Do you agree?"

"Do I agree?" Neal echoed, a little incredulously.

"Yeah. Does what I say make sense?"

"Peter, what am I supposed to say to your default argument to compare something to prison?" Neal replied, a little defensively. "It's easy for you to go there, but do you really think that's a fair comparison?" He paused and then quickly added, "And don't give me the whole 'you don't know what fair is,' spiel, Peter. It's too early for that."

"Fine. I'll wait for that until you've had your coffee," Peter responded, slightly teasing. He sensed Neal's sentiment beyond the tone and wanted to move on. "Besides. We have the case. I need you focused on that and not some room filled with pictures."

"Pictures..." Neal echoed, trailing off. "That coffee can't come soon enough…"

* * *

They were at the office by a quarter to nine, a short amount of time to spare before the meeting Peter had requested Diana to organize on his behalf in the conference room. It was just enough time to find her, quickly debrief, and hopefully have Neal restate his nonchalant, confident poise. The rest of the car ride had been somewhat quiet, and Peter knew Neal was somewhat deep in thought.

Before he could settle them in and find Diana, Jones found them first, just as they had made it a few feet into the office, barely past Neal's desk.

"Hey, Boss," Jones greeted. "How was your night?" He glanced at Neal as he asked the question, no doubt wondering what had happened after his brief call with Peter while the man was at Neal's apartment. He then settled his eyes back on his supervisor.

Neal didn't react, simply slinking around his desk to take a seat in his chair.

"It was fine, Jones," Peter replied. "You know about the nine o'clock?"

"Yes, Diana has us all rounded up," Jones confirmed with a smile. "I'll be there. But I wanted to let you know the anklet's here. Arrived first thing this morning."

Peter didn't even blink. He'd been expecting this. A glance down towards Neal met a stoic expression, but Peter could feel the negative energy exuding from him. Often the anklet went hidden, concealed beneath clothing, unnoticed and not discussed. When it did come up, particularly around others, Peter could feel Neal's cloaked edginess.

"Thanks. I'll take care of it," Peter told Jones. "Where is it?"

"Your office," Jones responded. He glanced between Neal and Peter. "And, uh, they need the other one back. They asked if they could pick it up at noon."

"The other one," Peter echoed. A moment passed between them. Then Peter nodded, responding quickly, "Sure. They can come by at noon." His brow furrowed just slightly.

"Cool," Jones answered. "I'll let them know. Thanks. See you at nine." With that he gave a quick nod and walked away.

Peter turned and stared at Neal pointedly.

Neal raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes slightly at the sudden and very direct attention. "What?" he asked. "I was about to ask if you want coffee, but you look like you have something else on your mind…"

"Damn right I do," Peter replied, moving closer to Neal's desk. "And I bet you know what it is. Where is the old one, Neal?"

"Old what?" The corners of Neal's mouth edged up just slightly before quickly stiffening, a stoic look winning out. His mouth straightened.

Peter felt his blood pressure start to rise. "You think I didn't notice that look?"

"_What_ look?" Neal insisted innocently.

Peter leaned forward and placed his hands down on the surface of Neal's desk. "C'mon, Neal," he said in a lowered voice. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. The anklet. The old one."

"Peter, _you're_ the one that cut it off of me, remember?" Neal responded back. He maintained a calm, innocent exterior and spoke matter-of-factly. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his middle. "You were the last to touch it that I saw…"

"Yes," Peter agreed stiffly. "In _your_ apartment."

Neal shrugged, continuing to project innocence. "Well, Peter, what did you do with it afterwards?"

"Are you playing with me?" Peter asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

"Never. I wouldn't dare," Neal responded. His lips slightly curved again.

Peter continued to stare at Neal, irritated at the sudden act. Why was he surprised… Of course Neal wasn't going to offer any information. That wasn't a natural thing for him to do. Why would he expect him to be different in this situation? He _was _playing. However, Peter specifically recalled waving the defunct anklet in Neal's face, making some sort of relevant point in the moment, before dropping it on his table. After that, he had no recollection of seeing the device. Why he didn't take it with them when leaving the apartment… Well, he could kick himself for it right now.

"You're so observant, Neal. What did you see me do with it?" Peter challenged, raising his eyebrows. His mind channeled his memories from just an hour ago when he was right there, waiting for Neal to get ready. Had he seen the anklet? His memory was suddenly a blur. He'd been so focused on his phone…

Neal shrugged. "You put it on the table," he admitted without pause.

Peter was pleasantly surprised by an upfront response, and continued, "And then what?"

Neal shrugged again. "I don't know."

"Is it still there?"

"I've been with you this whole time," Neal replied, a little defensively. "Why are you acting like I did something with it?"

Peter acknowledged Neal was right. _He_ couldn't have done anything. Peter had been on top of him ever since he cut it off, and while he was good with sleight of hand, the anklet wasn't exactly something that fit in a back pocket. But still something didn't feel right about having left it behind.

"Did you tell Mozzie it was there?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure that little goon would jump on a chance to get inside that hardware."

"Little goon?" Neal echoed sarcastically. "That's real nice, Peter. I don't call your friends goons. Though now that I think about it, have I even met any of your friends…?" He smirked. "Do you have any?"

"Stop it." Peter shook his head dismissively. "Stay on topic, Neal. If we go to pick it up, is it going to be there?"

"Don't you have a meeting starting in ten minutes?" Neal extended his wrist to look at his watch with a little bit of exaggeration in the gesture.

"Neal."

"We were just at my apartment, Peter," Neal answered, frowning slightly. His tone remained inquisitive and blameless. "Why didn't you ask about it then?"

Peter felt like throttling Neal, though the younger man was technically saying nothing wrong. "I should have," he responded crossly. He racked his brain. He didn't recall seeing it that morning at Neal's apartment. But, so focused on conversing with Diana, he honestly hadn't looked for it. Between glancing at his watch and goading Neal into getting ready faster, he hadn't really thought to look for it. Despite being the person who always thought end-to-end about things, especially process and procedure, this time he hadn't.

"I was a little surprised when you just left it there," Neal mused out loud. He pressed his lips together and tilted his head slightly, giving Peter a questioning look.

"Oh yeah? Were you?" Peter asked sarcastically while giving Neal a look, narrowing his eyes.

Neal returned the look with a self-righteous gaze of his own. "It didn't seem very 'Peter' of you," he replied earnestly. "To just discard it like that."

Peter narrowed his eyes further. Why was it that Neal's most open, honest moments were to make statements that drove him crazy? "I wasn't discarding it, Neal…"

"Want me to go back and get it?" Neal offered. "I can go back home."

"You? Not a chance. But if I send Diana after our meeting, will it actually be there?"

Neal made a face. He was bothered at first by Peter's dismissal of his offer, but moreso vexed at the second suggestion. "I don't want Diana in my apartment."

"I don't care, Neal. I need it back by noon."

"And what happens, theoretically, if that doesn't happen?"

"Why wouldn't that happen?" Peter retorted stiffly. He gave Neal a challenging look.

"I said theoretically, Peter. Speaking theoretically doesn't mean it _won't _happen," Neal answered. "I'm just wondering what _would _happen. You told me I should always ask questions. Consider scenarios."

"Not what I had in mind when I told you that," Peter replied a bit irritably. Then took a deep, calming breath. He straightened to his full height and gestured to Neal. "Get up."

Neal looked at up at him quizzically. He paused and then asked, "Why?"

"Because I'm out of time, Neal, and—"

"I don't know why you're turning this on me," Neal interjected defensively. "I didn't—"

"You didn't do anything," Peter finished abruptly. "Is that what you're going to say? I've heard it a million times, Neal. Enough. Just get up. We're going to my office. I need to at least get your new anklet on and activated before nine, and then we'll figure out the other one."

Neal looked a bit indecisive. "You're mad."

Peter sighed. "No," he forced out, feeling his blood pressure beg to differ. "I'm not."

"I can tell," Neal insisted. "Your pupils get bigger and you do that thing with your hands that—"

"Neal," Peter interrupted. "My hands are about to be around your neck." He took a step around the side of the desk towards Neal. "Remember our conversation about lockup?"

Neal smiled up at him, leaning his head back to look up at him more directly, clearly unaffected by the threat. "Peter…"

Peter's expression remained the same, narrowing his eyes slightly. "My office," he said. "Now." With that he turned and left, walking across the bullpen towards the stairs.

Neal hesitated just a moment longer. He let out a long deep breath but then promptly got to his feet, following a short distance behind Peter.

As he entered his handler's office seconds after him, he preemptively closed the door behind him. "You promised you'd never accuse me of something without proof," he told Peter. He spotted the replacement anklet on Peter's desk and frowned. "It feels like you're doing that now."

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Peter responded, back turned to him and not looking up as he reached for the device. "Sit."

Neal moved further into the office and pulled back a chair from the front of the desk to sit down. "Feels like you are," he repeated.

"I'm not," Peter said curtly. "I'm accusing Mozzie of something." He moved to take the chair beside Neal and sat down as well. "And you're doing a pretty good job not denying it by the way."

Neal scoffed. "Peter. I've been with you since you cut it off. I don't control Mozzie."

"No, but something tells me you give him just as many harebrained ideas as he gives you," Peter continued. "And if he so much as touched the old anklet, Neal, then you _both_ have a lot of explaining to do."

Neal clenched his jaw, unnoticeable to an observer. He hated how caged he felt at the moment. Here was a situation where it was _Peter_ at fault. Peter had been the one to come to his apartment, cut off the anklet, and leave it behind. Neal didn't make any of those decisions, and was not present to see Mozzie return to the residence. Had he _possibly_ texted Mozzie to let him know that there was an unattended, disarmed version of his anklet sitting out for anyone to examine? He might have, but that was beside the point. That was all circumstantial.

Neal glanced behind him longingly towards the door of the office as Peter took the chair beside him.

While Peter got the device ready, Neal turned his head. His eyes trailed across the contents of Peter's office as he had done multiples of times before. He was pretty sure he could spot anything amiss. He had to. Just in case he ever needed to fix things in here…

A tap on the knee from Peter brought his attention back to the current task at hand, and he turned his head before sighing and shifting in his seat so he could elevate his foot to Peter's reach. He rested it on the corner of the other man's chair and turned his head again to look out the window.

"Other one," Peter told him.

"Hm?" Neal turned his gaze back again.

"Not this one." Peter pushed at the currently elevated leg gently. "I'm not putting it on the same one."

"But I'm used to it on that one," Neal objected, not moving.

"So you'll get used to it on the other one."

Neal furrowed his brow slightly, and despite it rubbing him the wrong way (it was bad enough he had to wear the damn thing – could he not choose which ankle it went on?) it seemed too juvenile a point to fixate on and he let it go. He dropped the leg to the ground and shifted his position to raise his other foot the same way.

He could feel Peter's hands pushing up the fabric of his slacks to get access to his ankle. The movement was gentle and he tried not to feel annoyed.

"I'll move it back when you're sure the other ankle is fine," Peter said softly as his fingers focused on the strap of the anklet. "Just not yet."

Neal shivered at the touch against his bare skin but said nothing. Peter went through the motions quickly and the anklet beeped when it was activated. Neal didn't bother looking down to see the green light indicator. He felt a small tug as the fabric of his pant leg was put back in place and then they were done. As Peter stood up and moved around his desk to return to his own seat, Neal lowered his leg back to the floor. He flexed his ankle gently. He'd gotten so used to the hunk of metal on the other ankle, so this was a little weird.

"Now you have a phone call to make," Peter said as he settled into his own chair.

"What phone call?" Neal viewed Peter in question.

"Prove me wrong, Neal," Peter persisted. "Let's call your friend. You don't mind speaker phone, do you?"

Neal sighed. Calling Mozzie was one thing, but calling Mozzie with Peter as an active audience was something else. The two had gotten a little less awkward with each other but it was still two separate and distinct relationships, both with a different flavor of trust, that he needed to carefully balance. Separation of church and state.

"Is that really necessary?" Neal asked.

"Can you tell me with absolute, one hundred percent certainty that the anklet is on your table where I left it?" Peter asked. "If you can, then no, it's not necessary."

Neal wanted to look away. Peter was literally staring at him. If he looked away, not only would he appear guilty, like an accomplice, but he'd simply be directed to make eye contact again. He knew Peter at this point. Peter was big on eye contact. So he maintained an even gaze with his handler. And he didn't lie. "No," he admitted. Then he added, "But I can't say a lot of things with a hundred percent certainty, Peter."

Peter simply nodded. "I need it back, Neal. Call him. Please."

"He might not answer," Neal warned.

"I'll take the chance." Peter glanced at his watch. Minutes until nine.

Neal sighed again and reached into his pocket to withdraw his phone. As Peter watched him expectantly, Neal gave him a look.

"What?" Peter frowned.

Neal simply shook his head. Peter's focus was a little bit too much, but he said nothing. He started to dial his friend's number from memory.

"Speaker phone, Neal," Peter told him.

Neal grew frustrated. "Why?" he protested.

"Neal. I don't have time for you to tell me he's not there or to play some sort of code word game with him."

"Code word game?" Neal echoed sarcastically. At Peter's look, he sighed and pressed 'call' before begrudgingly also pressing the speaker button. "Fine."

It took two rings for Mozzie to pick up.

"Mon frère, Spiderman," came the voice over the line. "Good morning."

Neal winced at the wording, and tried to redirect his friend. "Listen, Moz. Hey, before you say anything—"

"Scale any other buildings?" Mozzie continued.

Neal felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He tried to avoid looking at Peter. "Look, Moz," Neal continued quickly, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. He tried to ignore it. He could feel Peter glaring at him with laser pointer vision. "I'm here with Peter. You're on speaker."

"Speaker… Lovely," Mozzie responded, obviously not keen on the concept. His voice grew a bit tinny. "Hello, Suit."

"Hello, Mozzie," Peter answered in equal monotone. Then his hissed, "Neal. What the hell does he mean – scaling buildings?"

Neal swiftly ignored him. "Mozzie, I need to ask you something."

"Neal," returned Mozzie, interrupting in a voice that was a little stiff. "You know I do not like to be on speaker phone."

"I know, Moz, but—"

"Nor called from the inside of a federal building."

"Yes, I know that too, Moz, but listen—"

"If you know, then why am I _still_ on speaker phone?"

"I tried. I did." Neal shot a look at Peter irritably and then made an executive decision and pressed the button to return the call to the earpiece only. He held the phone up to his ear. "There. Sorry." He ignored the reaction from across the desk. "Moz."

"Neal," Mozzie's voice continued, now directly in his ear. "What does the Suit need? You really ought to learn to manage him a little better. At least for my sake."

"I'll try," Neal responded, trying to mask his underlying sarcasm. He could feel Peter watching him. He tried to decide whether to cut to the chase or to try to dance around his words slightly in order to avoid Peter's scrutiny. He decided on compromise and pushed himself up from his chair, as the first approach would obviously work best but without Peter as an audience. Why had he agreed to that anyway? His ankle ached slightly in protest as he moved towards the doorway. "Listen, Moz –"

"Neal," Peter said his name warningly.

Neal ignored him and moved to pull the door open. He exited the office, continuing his discussion with Mozzie but decidedly one-on-one. "No climbing references, Moz," he said insistently once he was far enough from Peter's earshot. "Please."

"Oh, you didn't share your new hobby with the Suit, I suppose?"

"Not sure he would be supportive."

"Imagine that."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Listen." He paced a few feet across the floor, looking back towards Peter's office, surprised but pleased the man hadn't followed him out. "The anklet. Where is it?"

"I told you. I know a guy."

"Where's the guy? I need it back."

"Why?"

"By noon, Moz. Is that possible? Did you already give it over?"

"You said they left it behind."

"Yeah, but now they want it back," Neal answered brusquely.

"So what you're really saying is your _assumption_ that they wouldn't notice they left it behind wasn't all that sound."

"I figured they would notice," Neal said, voice terse. He didn't often earn lectures from Mozzie anymore and he wasn't about to invite one now. "Just not so quickly." He could hear the sigh come over the line. "Moz, come on. I thought you'd be done and have it back before he noticed."

"So the Suit surprised you."

"You could say that."

"Interesting."

"Mozzie, please."

"I get it," Mozzie said, sighing gently. "Look… Let me call him and see."

"So you have no idea whether you can get it back? He's going to kill me, Moz."

"I didn't say that…" Moz paused. "Look, the guy seemed busy. So on one hand, I would think he hasn't touched the thing yet, because he just hasn't had the time. But… that being said. Access to one of these Fed-authorized devices can be quite tempting. He was excited to get his hands on it."

"Just call him."

"I will. And don't sound so desperate, Neal. It's not like you. Does the Suit know we have it or he's speculating?"

"He assumes. I didn't tell him. But he knows. After all, he left it at my place."

"Fine. But it's not a big deal. Like you said, Neal – He's the one that left it."

"I _know_," Neal insisted. "Moz, I get that. But he has a different sort of interpretation of the situation."

"Fine. I'll get it back, bud."

"Thanks. By noon. Or else… Or else, I don't know." Neal rubbed his free hand over his face dolefully. He could always blame Mozzie if he didn't get it back in time. What could Peter do to Mozzie?

"You okay?"

"I guess."

"You guess…" Mozzie repeated slowly.

"I'm fine. I'm good." Neal wasn't going to start any emotional platitudes with one of his oldest friends. "I'm good, Moz."

"Not like they'll lock you up for this. They left it behind," Mozzie said affirmatively. "It's their ass on the line for overlooking it. But by noon should be fine. You'll be at the office?"

"I think so." Neal repeated Mozzie's words in his head: Not like they'll lock you up. This seemed like a small infraction, but everything was the potential last straw that could lead to not meeting the conditions to be serving his sentence outside of prison. And besides, Peter had already threatened him twice now with time in the holding cell. Which he absolutely did not want. And Peter had other informal ways to deal with him too.

"So by noon it is, pal. How's the ankle?"

"Better."

"Good. See you before noon."

"Okay. Thanks, Moz."

The line went dead. Neal closed his eyes briefly and then returned to Peter's office, meeting the expectant gaze with a calm one of his own.

"You'll have it back by noon," he said as affirmatively as he could.

"So he has it."

"You'll have it by noon," Neal repeated.

"In one piece?" Peter asked.

"Yes," Neal said naturally, though his stomach flip-flopped a little at the thought. He hadn't specified with Moz but he knew the man would channel what he needed. "One piece."

"Why'd he call you Spiderman?"

Neal forced a smile with a chuckle and then made deliberate eye contact with Peter. Eye contact made statements more convincing and made Peter less suspicious. He was about to respond with an automatic 'not sure,' but acknowledged internally that would be a lie. So he went with a shrug and instead replied, "I'm sure he was trying to make a joke."

"A joke…" Peter echoed. "And the reference to scaling buildings? That a joke too?"

"He's got a creative mind…" All of this was true.

"Oh, I don't doubt that…" Peter eyed him skeptically. "So do you... What'd you do?"

Neal frowned briefly and then smiled a bit wider, forcing as much indifference as he could. "Me? Nothing, Peter." He couldn't maintain the eye contact too much longer and tried to think of what to have divert his attention.

Peter didn't look convinced. "It's never nothing with you. What did you scale?"

Neal shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Since when do you take everything Mozzie says to be reality? He was probably referring to a recent conversation we had. You think I've _actually_ been scaling buildings?" Questions weren't lies.

Peter continued to look at him with scrutiny.

"You know what I'd _like_ to scale…" Neal spoke, changing the angle of the conversation. "I have a top ten. I've ranked it by country. First – "

"I don't want to know," Peter interrupted.

"Not curious?"

"Nope. Not in the least."

Neal tilted his head to the side, looking at Peter curiously. He was pretty sure the man _was_ curious, but more importantly he was pretty sure he had also successfully redirected his thoughts away from recent climbing activity.

Mission accomplished.

"It's nine," Neal told him pointedly. "Don't we have to be in the conference room?"

Peter sighed and nodded. He pushed back his chair and started to stand up. "Right. Let's go."

"I never got that coffee."

"You'll live."


	6. Chapter 6

This is a shorter update than typical – couldn't make my way through editing more! I apologize but maybe that's for the better!

Chapter 6

* * *

Diana was waiting outside of the conference room, looking just slightly impatient as she observed Neal and Peter's approach. She had her arms crossed over her chest, a folder tucked against her side.

"I thought you said to meet at nine," she told Peter with a look that was an equal mix of question and curiosity as they came within earshot. Her voice held just the slightest hint of accusation. "Did I mishear you?"

"No, you didn't…" Peter acknowledged as they reached her side. He gave her an apologetic look. "My fault. Busy morning."

"I bet…" she replied a little inquisitively as she glanced between her boss and his CI.

"For the record, I reminded him more than once of the time," Neal offered her earnestly with a brief shrug. She simply rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head with clear skepticism.

"Sure you did," she said sarcastically.

"Okay, okay… We're three minutes past the hour," Peter responded patiently with an appeasing tone as he looked between the two of them. "You," he said to Neal with a pointed look, "do me a favor and drop the 'for the record' act when you're full of crap." As Neal feigned confusion at the claim, Peter then turned his attention to Diana. "You all set? Everyone in there already?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "We're ready to go. I just thought you and I would have a chance to catch-up before we got started..."

Peter nodded, glancing once more at his wristwatch. "I know," he replied with a sigh. "Sorry about that." Looking thoughtful for a moment, he turned his head towards Neal, who remained at his side. Then he said, "Go ahead in, Neal. Give me a minute with Diana. We'll be right there."

Neal's eyes shifted from his handler to Diana slowly, expression not changing aside from briefly pressing his lips together. Then without comment he nodded and moved to walk away from them into the conference room a few feet away. Peter's eyes followed his movement, and then he also stepped closer to the doorway to briefly scan the room. There were about eight other agents already seated and chatting amongst themselves while waiting.

He quickly tallied the attendance before turning his full attention to Diana.

"Two minutes," he told her. "What's up?"

"So…" she began. "I heard you had an interesting night with him." She spoke now without hiding her inquisitiveness, smiling slightly. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Want to share?"

Peter paused, digesting the question and assessing her demeanor. "With Neal?" He watched her nod as her expression also become slightly more interested. "Alright," he continued slowly. "I see. I'm assuming Jones mentioned something? You don't have to rat him out, but I suspect it was him…" As Diana said nothing but continued to observe him with a slightly wider smile, Peter said, "Well, it was nothing. Just a mix-up on the anklet."

"Mix-up," she repeated slowly. She tilted her head. "With the anklet? Doesn't sound like nothing. Didn't you tell him the second that anklet indicated anything, even a different shade of green, that he'd be back behind bars?"

"I may have said that," Peter started, "but now we've both learned that there are actually some technicalities…"

"Technicalities?" she repeated. "Really? You sound like him."

As Diana raised her eyebrows, he gave her a look. "Diana. It's fine…" he replied. "Whatever Jones might have implied, Neal didn't actually do anything. You know he wouldn't even be here if he had."

"That's probably true. But either way…" Diana said slowly, "I've never seen you make so many house calls before, Boss. Isn't it a little… distracting?"

Distracting. That was a word for it. Peter simply offered a patient smile. "What can I say…? He's just…" he slowly trailed off and then paused before continuing the thought. He shook his head. "Look. We're off topic. This isn't what you wanted to talk about, is it?"

"It is."

He exhaled a slightly exasperated breath. He rolled his eyes at her. "Diana. Really?"

"What?" she retorted, chuckling. "Boss, you've been unnaturally preoccupied with stuff like this since he's been working for you, and I just–"

"Enough," he cut her off, though his voice remained composed and gentle. "I'm not preoccupied." He knew his agents were increasingly curious about Neal and his interactions with him. He also knew he'd feel the same way if he were observing it from an outside perspective himself. "If something about him concerns you, I'll be sure to let you know. Until then, you do what you're doing and ignore the rumor mill." He paused. "Unless you actually know of something he's doing that I should know about."

"Got it," Diana responded with a smile. "And so far he's actually generally kept his nose clean."

"Just remember with him that 'generally' isn't good enough," Peter remarked wryly. "By the time there's a hint of something, he could be in possession of the crowned jewels." He then made a face. "Do not tell him I said that."

"You mean, don't tell him you don't trust him?" Diana smirked.

"I do trust him," Peter replied automatically, a little defensively. As Diana studied him, he said, "I wouldn't have considered this deal if there was no trust there."

She sighed. "Right. Well, I'll certainly let you know if I hear of anything," she affirmed.

Peter nodded. "Thanks. You can tell Jones to mind his own business too." He then nodded his head towards the room. "Getting back on topic – You want to take them through it? Anything you want to run by me first?"

She paused and then let out a deep breath, dropping her arms to her side. "If you got my messages, then you're relatively up to speed." She gestured to the folder in her hand. "It's all in here plus what we talked about yesterday."

"Good," he responded. "You take the lead then."

* * *

Neal felt eyes on him as soon as he left Peter and Diana's company to enter the conference room on his own. While he wished to have a way to avoid it, he also felt a sinking feeling of dread at the same time. He didn't want to say it took _courage_ to walk in alone, because he didn't need courage. Certainly not for simply walking into a room. Courage was for things much bigger then this. Courage was for things that got the adrenaline pumping. This wasn't that. But this also wasn't an ideal scenario either. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been hoping to enter the room _with_ them, and not alone. And that was an odd concept to admit to himself, because everything he did was usually alone, even when he was physically with other people. This time, he realized that while heading towards the conference room with Peter, he had been expecting to appear 'with' them, which in itself was … what? Comforting? Distracting? A sure sign of weakness?

Being 'with' Peter had actually been a benefit in his experience so far. He had to admit that. The other agents acted differently when Peter was there.

He then told himself, briefly playing his own devil's advocate, that maybe it was better not to have the constant association. He didn't _have_ to always be with Peter. In fact, while being with Peter ensured other agents treated him a certain way, he was also certain at the same time that it was that association with Peter that earned him some of the issues with other agents.

It didn't matter now, because this time there was no point to weigh which option was better. He had no choice. He would be entering the lion's den on his own.

In the room were just over a handful of agents, and he recognized a few of them from the crime scene a couple days ago. That last interaction wasn't one of his finer moments. It could have been, but Peter undermining his instinct and incessantly lecturing him had somewhat altered the originally envisioned outcome of his effort. He still felt a small sense of irritation, and embarrassment, at the recent memory.

He'd encountered a mixed spectrum of interactions and experiences with the agents he'd been introduced to at the Bureau thus far. He learned early on that introducing himself was somewhat pointless. They knew who he was. He had no options of identities here. Most knew exactly who he was and what his role was. It was evident immediately that there were a variety of opinions on CIs, and Neal wasn't sure whether that was typical, taught at the academy, or maybe was related to specific experiences. He didn't know who to ask to find out. He had asked Mozzie, but that had resulted in a long tirade about not trusting any of them, rather than a real answer.

As he moved further into the room, where most occupants seemed caught up in their own side discussions, he noticed two of the agents exchange a few whispered words and then a chuckle, eyes seemingly fixated to him.

He had no issues with blatantly making eye contact with both of those agents as he crossed the room, though he did nothing else to respond. The direct eye contact seemed to make at least one of them feel uncomfortable and they quickly looked away. The other seemed to take a moment before simply rolling their eyes but then also lowering their gaze.

Neal reminded himself that the words and chuckle could easily have nothing to do with him. Looking at him during their exchange could have simply been coincidence. He had just walked into the room, after all. The association could just be in his mind, falsely correlating the eye contact with some other ulterior motive and commentary.

Ignoring them, he approached the first empty chair he could see, just a couple feet away. He focused on that chair, but then paused when the agent sitting beside it suddenly put his arm across it, blocking his access.

"Not today," the man said, looking up with a small smirk. "Sorry, man, but I don't feel like being pickpocketed at the moment."

A few other agents laughed.

Neal ignored the quip, giving a tight smile, and moved a chair past him, silently pulling it out from the table and settling into the piece of furniture without giving in to any emotion. He wanted to respond but knew it wasn't wise. Besides, he was far too used to the comments at this point, especially ones like these. They were exactly what happened when Peter wasn't in the room with him.

_Tell me if anyone gives you a hard time_, Peter had told him a couple times at some point during one of his first days. Neal had digested the comment and thought about it occasionally. He wasn't sure what constituted a 'hard time.' Probably not words.

He didn't have long to think about it this time.

"Alright," came the familiar voice of his handler from the doorway. Peter walked in with Diana just behind him, and they stayed at the front of the room, the audience of agents seated at the table ahead of them now turning to their attention. Peter continued to speak. "Thanks everyone for coming together on short notice this morning. I apologize that we're starting a few minutes later than planned, but I think once Diana gives you all the background, you'll understand it's been a quick turnaround in the last twenty-four hours, and we have a lot ahead of us to take these guys down."

Quick turnaround in the last twenty-four hours? Neal focused on that statement. The last twenty-four hours replayed themselves in his mind. In his own personal experience, those hours had little to nothing to do with the case. Especially the last twelve. He resisted a frown as he tried to focus on Diana, who now started to speak.

"As most of you know," she began, "a couple days ago we were able to apprehend a key suspect in the forgeries case that we've had open for the last couple of months. This was a critical takedown for us after a lot of work tracking him down, and a number of you were involved in both his identification and apprehension."

"To be fair, in the end he made it pretty easy," one agent responded with a slight chuckle.

"Yeah, that guy got sloppy," commented another one of the agents towards the front of the room. "He had a good start but a messy ending."

"Tends to happen after you chase someone long enough," Peter replied.

Neal happened to catch Peter's eye at the moment he made the comment, and narrowed his eyes slightly. Peter gave him a quick smirk that was barely detectable as he turned back to Diana. "Now that we have him in custody is where things are getting interesting…" Peter stated to the room.

"Exactly," Diana agreed. "This guy now seems willing to do _anything_ to avoid personally being held culpable, and as a result, he's talking. A lot. He's giving us names, account numbers, addresses, you name it. He's one of the most open suspects we've ever had." She paused. "A few of you have been involved in verifying this information." She made eye contact with a few of the agents sitting in front of her. "However… Some of this verification is going to require us to actually _go_ to some of these properties in person."

Neal sat up a little straighter in his chair. Here we go. The details seemed to correlate to the vague reference Peter had made regarding a trip outside of the city.

Diana walked a few feet over as she spoke. "Now, this is where we'll need some help. The properties happen to be spread out geographically, though most are in the tri-state area. We need to quickly assess them. We're prioritizing the review by the emphasis he put on the locations. Like I said, he's being pretty open. Some of the locations are weekend residences, and some of them are commercial. There are about twenty locations in total."

"Twenty?" echoed a female agent. "What are these guys – real estate junkies?"

"The properties are all in different names," Diana continued. "While there's clearly a connection, we're not exactly sure what. Or what's located at each place."

"What if he made up the addresses?" another agent asked.

"Always possible," Diana commented. "But some are definitely legit and something might be there. That's where we come in. I'll circulate the full list with all of the details we know after this meeting. Regarding the owners or tenants of the properties, some of the names are known aliases of the guys in the ring we've been investigating. A few of the addresses were already on our list. Some of the names are new. They are likely aliases as well, but names that weren't previously on our radar. We're obviously doing background checks on those new names now. A few of the owners are corporations. We're trying to find out what we can about those."

"So how do we check these locations out?" another agent asked.

"Exactly," Diana began. "Like I said, this is where we need some help. We'll need to divide the properties and do a recon over the next few days. And we need to move fast. If anyone gets a tip that we're onto these undisclosed locations, then they can quickly eradicate records and any other evidence that could be within those walls. We can't have that happen."

"We've divided up the locations," Peter chimed in, glancing around the room. "As Diana mentioned, most are in the tri-state area, but a couple are not. If there are any travel restrictions or commitments you have over the next few days that require you to be in the city, then tell me now. We need all of your support on this in order to be successful."

"You say a few days…" began one of the agents next to Neal. "How many days exactly? I have a wedding I need to attend this weekend."

"We hope to be done by the end of the weekend," Peter replied. "But we'll try to assign you one of the closer locations." He looked across the expressions of the other agents. "If anyone else has a similar situation like that, let Diana or me know. We can't make many exceptions, but we'll do our best."

"What about him?" the agent directly across from Neal asked, nodding his head towards him. As Neal looked up and made eye contact, the man added, "Why is he here? How can he help with a one mile radius?"

"It's two miles," Neal retorted, glaring across the table. He then felt foolish to even make the correction. He felt heat rise in his face. Out loud the comment sounded childish and it reinforced the lack of autonomy he continued to feel.

"Ooh, two miles," the same agent responded back with a cocky smirk. It was clear the response simply offered more fodder for sarcasm. "My mistake, Caffrey. What is that, like twenty blocks?"

Neal narrowed his eyes, feeling an angry rise of emotion inside him that he knew he had to curtail. He skillfully pushed that aside and instead smiled good-naturedly. He pulsated with annoyance but exuded suave confidence with ease. "It's sixteen to twenty-four depending on the neighborhood," he responded factually, tone smooth and without pause. "But your wife would know that."

A few of the other agents started to laugh at the insinuation in Neal's few words, while the instigating agent suddenly looked livid.

"Enough," Peter interjected before any other comments could be exchanged. He shot Neal a warning look before also sending a discouraging headshake to the other agent. "Given the limited amount of time we have here, I'd focus on your own assignments and not the technicalities of other people's work releases."

Neal breathed out a silent but exasperated breath.

"So when can we see our assignments?" asked a female agent.

"I have them right here." Diana smiled and raised the folder in her hand that had been tucked under her arm. She then turned her head towards the agent that had raised concern over weekend commitments. "John, we may need to swap you with someone depending on where you landed... Can't remember offhand."

"Sure, no problem," John replied, shrugging. "Thanks."

With that she moved closer to the table and dropped the folder on it. She flipped it open and started to pull a page at a time and hand them out. "Alright… Here we go…. This one's Chris." She handed the paper to the third agent from her. "Tom." That paper went across the table. "Patty."

Neal watched all the papers get distributed, names methodically read out loud. Slowly emptying the folder, Diana moving around the room to those that were out of her reach.

"Some of you are lucky enough to have more than one assignment," Peter spoke as she continued to hand out the papers. "That's based on the geography and what we felt made sense."

"On the back of the assignments," Diana continued, handing out the final piece of paper to a woman at the front of the table, "is a checklist. This is the type of information we need you to collect. There are questions to be answered by anyone that is present at the properties. Be detailed. Take notes and photos. For some of the locations, we're in the process of securing warrants. For example, a couple of you have storage lockers. You'll have to request the key or code, and the warrant will expedite this."

Empty-handed and still feeling a little annoyed from the recent exchange, Neal watched the other agents eagerly reviewing their assignments. He remained quiet and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"West Virginia?" one of the agents spoke up with a groan. "Seriously?"

Diana chuckled. "Hey, it's actually a beautiful state if you give it a chance…" she responded. "Like I said, not all of the locations are in the tri-state area."

"Well lucky me…" he muttered.

"Hey, at least you didn't get Newark," replied another man. "I thought for a minute I'd see some greener pastures as a result of this at least."

"Reserve your opinions of these cities for TripAdvisor, guys. Focus. Review your locations, and work with Diana to coordinate travel," Peter spoke, dismissing the lighthearted commentary. "We need to move forward first thing tomorrow morning. Like we said, time is of the essence here. We'll have one more debrief later today. Until then, prepare yourselves and let us know if you have any questions." He looked around the room once more and then said, "None? Okay. Otherwise you're all dismissed. Please be back in this room at four p.m. this afternoon."

With that there were a series of chairs pushed back with the creaks and groans of furniture, as well as murmuring voices as the agents made an effort to disband. There was rustled movement around the room as agents briefly compared notes on where they would be headed the next day before ultimately moving towards the door to exit into the hall outside.

Neal stayed seated and carefully watched the other agents leave the room. He made mental notes on their interactions, particularly on who seemed to gravitate to whom. Meanwhile, Diana closed the now empty folder and picked it up from the table.

"I didn't get an assignment." Neal spoke once the only other remaining people in the room were Diana and Peter. "Was that intentional?"

"Yes. You don't get your own. Your assignment is my assignment," Peter replied.

"But _you_ didn't get an assignment," Neal replied, nodding at Peter's empty hands.

Peter smiled at him. "Sure, I did. We got the best one."

"I made sure of that," Diana affirmed with a chuckle. "Can't send my boss to West Virginia or Newark, after all."

"So the alternative is… what?" Neal asked skeptically. He wanted to feel enthusiastic towards the developing case but after the brief meeting there weren't enough details yet. He glanced at Diana after her statement, but she offered no clues.

"You'll see. Let's talk in my office," Peter responded, gesturing to him to stand.

Frowning slightly, Neal rose from his chair and slowly moved around the table to close the distance between him and the pair. His ankle felt stiff as he walked. "You're being mysterious," he accused them both. He could tell Peter enjoyed withholding the information. Perhaps that was a power play. Knowledge was power. He was about to make another comment, but as he neared the man, Peter reached out and took him firmly by the shoulder with his right hand.

"And, Neal?" the older man began.

"Yeah?" Neal looked at his handler with raised eyebrows, a little surprised by his physical hold. He glanced down at the hand, which was gentle but firm.

"No wife jokes, okay?" Peter replied, now squeezing his shoulder. "I told you before. Don't let them get to you."

"No one got to me," Neal objected, a little defensively.

"Don't."

"They didn't. Besides, it was _barely _a wife joke," Neal responded. "I don't think half of them even got it." He shrugged off Peter's hold, and the hand lifted and then dropped to Peter's side. Neal continued, "I took a guess he was even married. He wasn't even wearing a ring."

"Well, he is. Married with kids." Peter shook his head. "I'm going to tell you again. Ignore the jokes."

Ignore the jokes, Neal repeated in his head. The jokes drove him crazy. Especially the ones that happened when Peter wasn't in the room. Those always dug harder. Or when conversations were cut short simply because he entered a room or neared the water cooler. Peter didn't know the extent of the jokes and affronts he put up with, never mind in detail. But Neal stiffened his jaw and simply nodded. "No wife jokes," he repeated. "Got it."

"How about no _any _jokes," Peter replied, eyeing him steadily. "Not with them. It's not worth it. Having you around is still a new concept to some of them. They'll move onto something else soon enough. Prove you can contribute, and you won't have to worry about it."

"So… That means nothing like this." Neal raised his hand.

Peter's eyes moved to the hand, observing the wallet Neal had in his grip. He sighed resolutely and worked his jaw. "I'm guessing that's not yours," he said a little stiffly.

"No," Neal agreed. He smirked. "Mine? Peter… C'mon. The quality of this leather is horrible."

Peter looked frustrated. "Didn't I just say to prove you can contribute?"

Diana meanwhile looked impressed. "Hey, how'd you do that, Neal? You didn't even get up," she said, shaking her head slightly in disbelief.

Neal shrugged. "He walked by me, and—" He stopped when Peter abruptly took the wallet from his hand. "Hey," he objected, empty hand still raised.

"Hey?" Peter echoed. "What – you want it back? It's not yours." Peter shook his head. "You know, Neal. They might lay off you a little bit it you didn't prove them right."

"Prove them right?" Neal asked.

"Think about it," Peter replied, a little tersely. "You think behaving like a criminal is going to get you points around here?"

"I didn't know there was a point system here," Neal said, tone facetious but expression nonchalant.

A look of irritation crossed Peter's face at the response. "Neal, you think it's funny?"

Neal shrugged. Peter sounded and looked annoyed. He also appeared to be waiting for an answer, which caught Neal slightly by surprise. He tried to keep the discussion lighthearted. "That sounds like a rhetorical question, Peter."

"Well, it's actually not," Peter responded dryly. "Try playing by the rules for a full twenty-four hours for once, Neal."

Before Neal could respond, Diana chimed in. "Well, in my mind, it's harmless and Brian deserves it," she commented, exchanging a look with both men. As Peter sent her a discouraging frown, she gave a shrug and continued. "The guy's an asshole, Peter. Even you know that. It's a harmless prank."

"The guy's a good agent," Peter replied.

"Doesn't change the fact about his personality," she replied.

"Pickpocketing," Peter answered, raising the wallet in his hand emphatically, "is illegal. Don't encourage him."

Diana sighed and reached to take the raised wallet from her superior. "I will do the honors of returning it," she told him. She then turned and gave Neal a wink. "I'll tell him he dropped it." She then commented more sternly, "But don't do it again." She turned back to Peter. "See? Not encouraging."

Peter simply shook his head, and remained silent as Diana moved away from them to leave the room.

"I like Diana," Neal told his handler, smiling.

"You can't do that, Neal," Peter replied with a sigh. "It's not okay. Selective misdemeanors are still misdemeanors."

"Fine," Neal acknowledged, a little dismissively but dropping the smile. There were some things Peter didn't take kindly to joking about. Breaking the law, even barely, was one of them. Before showing the pair the wallet, he had reconsidered, hesitating whether to admit to the act, but then had been unable to hold back. It had been an achievement to take the wallet so quickly undetected. Now he wished he'd kept it to himself. "I get it. I'm sorry. Let's talk about the case."

"The case," Peter replied, tone a little cautious. "Are you going to be like this on the case?"

"Be like what?" Neal asked, a little warily. He studied Peter's expression and then said, "How about this –I'll ask you first before I take anyone's wallet."

"Neal…" Peter's eyes judged him, tone forewarning.

"What?" Neal responded defensively. "Peter… Come on. You're going to regret giving me a hard time about this when you actually need me to do it…"

"Come on?" Peter just sighed. "I doubt that I'll actually need you to do it, Neal."

Neal simply stared back at him, brow just slightly furrowed.

"Just think a few steps ahead, Neal," Peter told him.

"I always do."

"Keep me in mind."

Neal made a face. That was an interesting nuance.

Peter continued to study him and then quickly decided to drop the current topic. "Okay, enough of that. Do you want to talk about the case or not?"

"Yes," Neal affirmed. "I do."

"Good. Follow me." Peter started to walk towards the door and Neal followed. "We actually have a couple locations we need to check out…"

We, Neal echoed in his mind. 'We' was a good thing.

"Two things first though," Peter continued.

Contingencies, Neal's mind processed. Contingencies were never good. "Like what?" he asked, masking his apprehension.

"Well, neither of us had coffee this morning," Peter began. "So you can start with that."

"Meaning what? I'm not your butler," Neal replied.

Peter laughed out loud at the comment. "Butler. No… No, you're not…" he said. "Intern?" Peter offered, turning to glance at Neal as he walked, taking in the younger man's expression of disdain and uneasiness. "Either way. I know you want it – you can get me one while you're at it."

"Fine," Neal allowed somewhat begrudgingly. "And? You said two things."

"Oh yeah. The second is the anklet, Neal. If Mozzie doesn't deliver, then you can consider your assignment pending."

"Pending."

"Let's avoid having to define that, okay?"

"Okay." Neal sighed.


	7. Chapter 7

Assignment pending.

The two words repeated themselves in Neal's mind.

The case was a good one. True to Diana's claim, they had also gotten the best locations to investigate. After an hour in Peter's office going through their assignment, he had to admit he was looking forward to it. There was a chance to get out of the city, to work side by side with Peter, and a chance to really prove himself. He was feeling positive anticipation for the first time in a while.

But then there were the contingencies preceding the case.

He realized 'assignment pending' could have been an empty threat. Maybe nothing to worry about. The anklet would eventually be back. Peter often made lots of empty threats.

Neal considered that for a moment, feeling slightly more optimistic, but then once again changed his assessment. There were plenty of times that Peter followed through with his threats as well. He seemed pretty adamant this time that being on the case meant no loose strings on the anklet.

He considered that he could make the argument that this missing anklet and its delayed return couldn't _directly _be attributable to him…

Wouldn't work. He knew that.

Neal sighed as he drummed his fingers across his desk. At eleven thirty, he was starting to feel just a little bit uneasy. He hadn't heard from Mozzie since he'd called him from Peter's office earlier that morning before the briefing on the case. He was hesitant to reach out again, knowing his friend already knew he needed the anklet back at noon and would let him know if there was risk of that not happening. He also felt like if he reached out, he might possibly hear something he didn't want to hear, and he wanted to avoid that as long as possible.

He'd taken a handful of files from Peter's office when they finished talking. Location write-ups, coordinates, pictures, and other details. While Diana and Peter had alluded to a lot being done on the case in the last twenty-four hours, he knew he was not part of that contribution and was anxious to catch-up.

Talking with Peter one-on-one about the case had been good. He felt like he was back to a clean slate. He was looking forward to working closely with the older man, and heading to an alternate site. That excitement lasted until they ended the conversation, closing comments offered by Peter before he had to take a meeting with Hughes. Those comments loomed in Neal's mind now; there had been yet another reference to the missing anklet accompanied by a look that meant business. Neal had refrained from any verbal response (what good would it do?) and had simply nodded before leaving his handler's office.

He had then resigned himself to his desk, focused on the case files, ankle slightly aching and eyes incessantly tempted to glance at the clock.

After a few minutes of staring at the same paragraph of the page in front of him multiple times, he paused and looked up at Peter's office from his desk. The noon deadline was nearing. He was slightly surprised (but relieved) that Peter didn't seem similarly focused on the clock. Had he been, putting pressure on the narrowing timeline, Neal was prepared to unabashedly assure him that it wasn't noon _yet_with an air of assurance and feigned annoyance at Peter's premature inquiry_. _

That didn't happen.

At eleven forty five, as he started to debate potentially reaching out to his friend or developing a better justification on why his case involvement should be unpaired from this missing anklet, his phone started to buzz.

He answered it on half a ring. "Moz."

"Neal," came the even tone over the line. "I'm here. Come downstairs."

"Do you have it?"

"Alfa. Tango. Sierra."

Neal rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair with a smirk. "What, Moz – you don't want to come up?"

"Are you kidding me? Alfa. Tango. _Sierra_," Mozzie responded back, nearly in a hiss.

"They don't bite, Moz."

Mozzie's tone grew exasperated. "That's not exactly what you said a week ago. Do you want this thing or not, Neal? Honestly, to me this device is just as good in the trash, and the longer I risk standing this close to a federal building—."

"Fine, fine. Moz, calm down. I'm coming."

"Thought so... And you only, Neal. No federal sidekicks. I'll wait five minutes."

"Sidekicks?" Neal couldn't help but repeat with sarcasm.

The phone line went dead.

Neal sighed. Typical Mozzie.

He pushed himself up from his desk, brushing aside the case files he'd been reviewing. Alfa Tango Sierra was Mozzie's covert way of providing the letters 'ATS' to Neal. The military alphabet was simple enough to understand. Fortunately, he was used to Mozzie, and his code - it meant nothing more than that Mozzie was across (A) the (T) street (S). Normally Neal would tease Mozzie a little over his need for such clandestine measures in otherwise benign situations, though the paranoia was a somewhat charming quality of his oldest friend. Given his earlier faux pas in putting Mozzie on speaker phone, he wasn't exactly surprised as the extra measure of caution, despite the lack of necessity.

On his way to the exit doors, Neal glanced once at his watch and then up at his handler's office before leaving the floor.

After an impatient elevator ride down to the street level, Neal walked out onto the sidewalk and readily spotted Mozzie across the street near a newsstand. He looked both ways before quickly crossing the street to reach his friend.

"Alfa, tango, sierra," Neal confirmed with a smile as Mozzie gave him an edgy stare. "Found you."

"So you did." Adjusting his glasses, Mozzie regarded him without returning the smile. "While I appreciate the invitation upstairs, Neal, I think I'll avoid setting foot into any federal building if possible. Not to mention that I've had enough time with the Suit this week already. Unscheduled no less."

Neal recalled Mozzie's quick exit from his apartment the evening before and gave him a look. "Yeah. Right. Thanks for ditching me when he showed up, by the way."

"Ditching you?" Mozzie retorted. "You seemed in good hands."

"I bet that's what you thought," Neal replied. He dismissed the thoughts of the earlier night. "So where is it?"

Mozzie held up a brown paper lunch bag in his hand. "Voila."

"And it's in one piece?" Neal asked, reaching to take the bag from him. Once in his possession he peered into the bag skeptically.

"What do you take me for?" Mozzie responded sarcastically. "Of course it's in one piece. Wouldn't want the Feds getting their panties in a wad."

Neal rolled his eyes. But then he spoke sincerely. "Thanks, Moz. I appreciate it." He paused, debating his next words before speaking. He looked up from the paper bag to meet his friend's eye. "And I don't suppose he had enough time to actually take a look at it, and discover any ways out of this thing, right?"

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "So now you expect that in the truncated timeline that you provided that he did a full workup and recon analysis of it? Come on, Neal. You can't have your cake and eat it too." He shook his head. "He barely had time to _look_at it from the outside before I asked for it back."

Neal nodded; the response was consistent with his expectations, and he knew he shouldn't have bothered with the wishful thinking or question, but he couldn't help but feel a slight bit disappointed. "Okay."

Mozzie studied his friend. "Maybe we'll get a chance another time," he responded softly. "They're sloppy once, they'll get sloppy again." He glanced behind Neal up at the federal office building. "On that note… I think my proximity to the Feds is wearing too thin."

"Thanks again," Neal said earnestly. "But one thing before you go…"

Mozzie looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"Peter and I are probably going to be headed out of town," Neal responded. He wasn't sure why he was saying 'probably' when it was an actuality as soon as the next morning arrived, especially since he was now returning the infamous anklet on time. He supposed he wanted to gauge his friend's opinion of the idea before admitting to the certainty of it.

"Why?" Mozzie seemed skeptical. "And where?"

"Not every case is in the five boroughs, Moz."

"Clearly, Neal. But he's taking you?"

Neal tilted his head at the comment, frowning slightly. "Yeah. Why not?"

Mozzie seemed to reconsider his answer before replying. "Well, then again… I suppose if you go with him, he doesn't have to speculate about what you're up to without him. I guess that makes sense. Smart actually."

Neal reflected on that, digesting the statement with mixed feelings. Was that why he was paired with Peter on the case? Was that the reason that Peter would take him with him? Versus genuinely wanting him on this case for his input? Because leaving him behind was more of a liability? Because he didn't trust him?

Before he could question his friend's perspective, the man was voicing his exit strategy once again.

"Listen, Neal. I've got to go." Mozzie's eyes were glancing back up towards the federal building again. "Let me know where you're headed when you find out. I'll make sure we have eyes there."

Neal nodded, once again not verbalizing a response at then end of a discussion. Mozzie simply gave him a nod before disappearing into the crowd.

Neal stayed stationary for a moment. He looked down at the bag in his hands again and then back behind him at the office building.

* * *

Peter was deep into the details of coordinating their trip, mapping out the sequencing of events. He was realizing the larger than on the surface task ahead of them, and the whole team, to orchestrate what they needed to over the next few days.

It was five minutes to noon when Neal walked through his office door and dropped a paper bag on his desk. It landed with a loud thud against the wood, a pen spinning out of its way upon impact.

Peter caught the pen before it rolled off his desk. He looked first at the package and then up towards Neal, who looked pleased.

"Lunch is served," Neal said with a smile.

"Clever," Peter muttered, reaching for the bag. He took it by the bottom edge and held it upside down, letting the anklet fall onto the desk by itself.

He hadn't been too concerned about the deadline. Telling Neal his participation in the case was directly linked to that deadline was simply to ensure he got the old anklet back as soon as he could. It made him nervous the longer Mozzie had the damn thing, but if there was a delay, he was resigned not to worry until he got the sense it wasn't coming at all.

It looked intact. "Anything to know about?" He looked up at his CI curiously.

Neal shrugged earnestly and shook his head. "I don't think so, Peter. It should be in exactly the same condition as when you had it last night."

"Better be…" Peter responded thoughtfully, eyeing the device critically. He couldn't tell. The last thing he needed was an accusation that someone had tampered with the thing beyond the strap being severed. He wanted to tell Neal that – that this could all reflect on him and his sentence if there was even a hint of tampering, but he refrained. He didn't feel like having that discussion. He hoped it wasn't the case. "I'll give it to Jones to get back to them." He looked up again, and this time caught Neal glancing backwards towards the door with that posture he'd learned to know meant the other man was distracted. "What else, Neal?"

"Huh?" Neal turned back, standing with his weight shifted to one side. He met his handler's eye. "Nothing. Just thinking about the case."

Peter wondered if the stance was related to the injured ankle or was simply a change in position. "Good. You have any thoughts from the files you've been through so far?" There were some leads highlighted in the materials he'd handed over to Neal, but he was curious what take the younger man might have. Neal had a unique way of assessing cases.

"I think I need more time to go through it," Neal replied a little vaguely. He paused and then shifted his weight yet again. "Peter… Why are you bringing me along with you instead of Diana?"

"Because I need someone here that I trust to stay back and coordinate with everyone," Peter said without hesitation at the question. He shrugged as if there was no other alternative answer. "That's clearly Diana."

Neal nodded slowly. "Okay. And Jones?"

"Jones already has an assignment on this case nearby. He just couldn't make the briefing this morning. Why?"

"Just wondering," Neal replied. He cleared his throat and then slowly added, "We've never really gone anywhere outside the city together. I mean, not more than like an hour away anyway."

Peter chuckled. "That's not completely true, Neal… We have."

Neal frowned for a brief second, as though puzzled by the response, but then immediately gave a small smile, eyes conveying mischief. "Peter… What you're referring to doesn't count. I was several steps ahead of you those times..."

"Very funny," Peter answered.

"Several," Neal repeated and gave him a look. "I'm serious. Across different borders even."

"Well, I guarantee this time we'll both be within the same border, Neal," Peter responded. "But back to your original statement – Why are you pointing that out? Don't you want to come with me?"

"I do," Neal affirmed. He masked any indication of otherwise. "Just making an observation."

"Okay, well I need more observations related to the case," Peter responded. "Get back to those files and see what else you can make out."

Neal began to turn to leave and then suddenly turned back. "What about the anklet?"

Peter reached for the returned, defunct anklet on on his desk, lifting it and raising his eyebrows. "What about it?" he asked.

"No, Peter. Not that one. This one." Neal gestured down at his feet.

"That one stays on," Peter replied.

"You said you'd—"

"I said I'd think about it, and I did think about it," Peter interjected, a little brusquely. "And I spoke to Hughes. It stays on."

Neal pressed his lips together, facial expression flashing a hint of frustration for a second before turning back into a nonchalant mask. He then let out an unemotional response of, "Okay."

"Doesn't mean anything," Peter persisted, "except following protocol. Radius can easily be changed or turned off and on again. There's no reason not to keep it on you."

Neal nodded, as though accepting this. "So you'll change the radius…. Or turn it off?"

Peter frowned at him. "Neal," he said. "Just know it stays on. That's all you have to worry about."

"Got it," Neal answered.

Peter scrutinized him slightly but then just nodded towards the door. "Go finish going through those files, Neal. We've got one more briefing to get through and an early morning tomorrow."

Neal nodded. He stepped further towards the door of the office, but then slowly asked, "Are the places in the files you gave me where we're going?" Neal asked. "There's more than a few."

"Yes, I told you that earlier, Neal."

"You did…. But did you know one of them is only accessible by helicopter?"

Peter smiled and leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk. "Yes, I knew that."

Neal looked a little bit more inquisitive. "You didn't mention that earlier."

Peter shrugged. "I suggest you finish going through the files, Neal."

He watched his CI smile. The younger man then turned to leave his office. Once he left, Peter sighed, glancing down at the paperwork on his desk. It was going to be a packed next few days.


	8. Chapter 8

Mozzie casually perused the case files spread across the table in Neal's apartment, flipping through the current pages in his hand slowly and with scrutiny. Not that he expected otherwise, but Neal never hesitated to share case information with him. In return, he never thought twice to share his opinion; the feedback would be about the case itself, both from an investigative perspective as well as how he'd go about the crime in question if in that position himself…

Usually his friend's cases with the Bureau were local. They involved going outside of his radius, given its limitation, but not like this. He'd sort of taken that for granted. The Suit seemed to prefer Neal was on a short leash. Given that, Mozzie always figured that if Neal was going to go somewhere, it'd be with him for another more advantageous reason for their next adventure.

But this time, it was the FBI leading Neal away. He supposed it meant Neal was graduating upwards with the FBI…

"You said two to three days?" he asked, looking up from the page, the text of which had become out of focus.

Across the room, Neal was packing. He had a duffle bag on his bed, and was pulling a few shirts from his closet. "That's what Peter said," he replied, a little distractedly. He was dressed casually, as though resigning himself for only packing and sleep for the night. "We have a few places we need to get to."

"And what do you expect to find there?"

Neal walked back from his closet towards his bed. He dropped a shirt on top of the bag. "Depends. At one of the places, they think it's a bunker site for some of their backup records. Another one could be a residence of one of the other suspects." He started to walk back towards the closet. "They expect to get enough evidence at these places to support a couple more arrests and close the case."

"And the guy in custody really just gave all this information up?" Mozzie asked, a bit skeptically. "To the Feds?"

Neal looked across the room and gave his friend a shrug and a smirk. "I guess some people crack under pressure."

"This is more than cracking, Neal. This is a ton of information. He could have given you guys one of these tips and the Feds would have been satisfied and none the wiser until they got a chance to take a look at what was there. The fact you have enough information to involve multiple agents traveling tomorrow… to multiple places each…" Mozzie's tone grew in pitch and suspicion.

"They said he's the most forthcoming a suspect has been," Neal responded. He pushed a couple shirts aside in his closet, reaching for another.

"And that's not raising any red flags?" Mozzie questioned. He glanced down at the paperwork again. "I mean, it's a little unusual. Don't you think?"

"Well, yeah…" Neal responded. He paused, a shirt folded over his arm. "No one we've ever worked with would ever give up that much, even under pressure… At least in one go. But then again, that's our experience. I mean, I've never worked _with_ the authorities before, Moz. Maybe it's not that unusual for some of these guys."

"You wanna know something, Neal?"

Neal turned his head. "Yeah?"

"It is," Mozzie stated firmly. "It is unusual. And I know you know that."

"Maybe it is. But…. Moz, the Bureau is usually somewhat skeptical as a gut reaction…" Neal continued. "Trust me, I know that first hand. If it was questionable, I'm sure Peter would have voiced that."

"Well, remind me never to work with your suspect," Mozzie replied. "That's breaking a serious code to just give up every detail like that. I'm sure he could've gotten a good deal with much less. "

"Tell me about it…" Neal responded wryly. He walked back over to his bed and scrutinized his bag. Then he said, "Toothbrush. I always forget a toothbrush." He started to walk towards his bathroom.

"You want to hear my theories?"

Neal stopped in his tracks and then slowly turned, frowning slightly. "You already have a theory." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Of course. You don't?"

Neal chuckled. "Of course I do. But mine has been a somewhat quickly crafted theory considering I'm coming up to speed in a day. But that's still hours more than you."

"What can I say…" Mozzie responded with a smile.

"Too bad you'd never be interested in being a formal informant," Neal replied lightheartedly, tone playful. "Though I'm sure I can get you a meeting if you were ever so inclined…"

"Very funny. I do my selective informing indirectly. Note the word selective."

"Note the word indirect. You do it through me," Neal said.

"Damn right. You want my theories or not?"

Neal smirked. "I do. Let's talk about your theories."

* * *

The next morning, Peter gripped his steering wheel while waiting in his car outside Neal's apartment. While he was a couple minutes early, he couldn't help but feel impatient as he gazed at the opulent building. He still couldn't believe Neal lived here. It was a stark contrast to the address he had originally arranged for him. The condition of the home was also just part of the upgrade; the presence of June was an additional positive force in Neal's routine. Peter was more grateful for that than the upgraded zip code, free designer suits, and high thread-count linen.

Somehow though, even with that extra bonus of a positive influence, Peter's effort to secure a roof over Neal's head and give him a full-time job wasn't enough to avoid stress. On a daily basis it was proving more complicated than that. Neal was complicated. And small things that Peter had taken for granted, like this damn anklet that he'd assumed would actually _help_ him control his CI, were now becoming headaches.

Peter still couldn't wrap his head around what Neal could have possibly done to get his ankle injured and cause all this. And given his quick recovery, Peter couldn't help but second-guess his rash decision to cut the anklet off the other evening. He'd been proving a point to him – to call him and not cover stuff up – but now had a feeling his message had fallen short and the costs were growing.

Peter would much prefer to have his mind fully focused on the current case, but recent updates on the anklet were causing an inconvenient distraction.

As Peter mulled this over, right on time Neal was exiting the building. He was dressed casually per instructions, usual suit traded for jeans and a dark t-shirt, and had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Peter's hand went to the button on his car door to automatically lower the window on the passenger side as Neal approached.

"I'm popping the trunk," Peter told him as he got within hearing range.

As Neal nodded and walked to the back of the car to drop his bags into the trunk, Peter simply sighed. After a few seconds, there was the sound of the trunk slamming shut, and a moment later Neal had pulled open the car door and was sliding into the passenger seat.

"Good morning," Neal said cheerily as he pulled his seatbelt across his torso, chin briefly pressed down against his chest as he pushed the buckle into its clasp to secure it.

"Not sure it's a good morning," Peter started slowly. He had coached himself earlier to remain patient, but already could tell that was going to be challenging.

Seatbelt clicking into place, Neal looked up with a frown and dropped his hands into his lap. "What?" he asked. "Why?" His expression was slightly cautious.

Peter shifted in his seat, turning to look at Neal as directly as he could. He wondered if he should be vague at first, to figure out if there was anything _else_ that he should know about, but then decided he didn't have time for that psychology. Psychology that might not even work. So he replied, "Your anklet, Neal."

"What about it?" Neal asked. "It's on." He reached down, pushing against the seatbelt, and hiked up the cuff of his jeans to reveal the boxy device. Then he looked back up, observing the stoniness in Peter's expression that remained. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Neal asked, expression evolving into wariness. "I haven't touched it."

"I'm not talking about that one…" Peter replied.

Neal sighed, pushing the fabric back down before leaning back in his seat. "Okay…" he began. "What is it now, Peter?"

"Now I'm not saying you lied to me when you said no one touched the anklet, Neal," Peter started.

"I didn't lie."

"Let me finish…" Peter warned. As Neal pressed his mouth shut, he continued. "The Marshals came back to me this morning to say they think it's been tampered with."

"Tampered with? In what way?" Neal asked incredulously. His brow furrowed, but he then grew resistant more than defensive. "Peter, I didn't touch it, and you know that. And they didn't have time to do anything to it."

"And that's the issue right there, Neal… Who the hell is 'they'?" Peter persisted.

"It doesn't matter, because _they_ didn't actually touch it," Neal said firmly.

"It does matter, Neal. There should be no 'they'. _They _should not have ever been able to lay a finger on a federal device, Neal. Who are they?"

"I don't know," Neal admitted, looking just a hint of defeated and uncomfortable. "But I do know they didn't touch it. You've gotta trust me on that."

"Are you sure?" Peter replied, voice growing a bit sterner. "Or is that what Mozzie told you?"

Neal exhaled, a slight huff of exasperation. "Both," he responded. "He'd tell me if they did anything. I asked." He didn't add, with a hindsight feeling of irony, that he had hoped they were able to examine it in the short period of time it was in their possession…

"He'd tell you?" Peter echoed. "You want to tell me again I've got to trust you, when you're riding your whole argument on hypotheticals?"

"He'd tell me," Neal answered resolutely.

Peter scrutinized him, feeling an edge of anger mixed with a hint of anxiety. After all, this was all supposed to be within his control. The anklet was supposed to be simple. "Neal, the fact that you handed your anklet over to a third party is putting me in a difficult situation… You do get that, right?"

"I didn't hand it to anyone," Neal replied, a bit stiffly. "Let's not mix up the facts, Peter. You were with me the whole time."

"Facts? Sure, let's stick with facts, Neal. Did you tell Mozzie we left it behind?"

Neal remained silent but continued to maintain eye contact.

"Did you?" Peter insisted. "Yes or no, Neal."

Neal's eye contact then shifted to the windshield, gazing into the road. "Not like that. I didn't tell him specifically."

"Come on." Peter grew more frustrated. "Don't beat around the bush, Neal. Did you _imply_ it? That there was _something_ there? I know your euphemisms. Clearly he came back."

Shifting in his seat, Neal sighed. "I might have," he admitted, looking back at Peter briefly. "But still, Peter. No one touched it. I guarantee it. You got it back."

"Did you not think we'd need it back, Neal? That it could just disappear? I only got it back because they apparently didn't have enough time to do whatever you wanted them to do. Right, Neal?" Peter asked with exasperation. He then exhaled, trying to balance the message he was trying to get across. "Do you understand the ramifications of them _thinking_ it's been tampered with? And despite your insistence otherwise, if they _did _do something to it, you know what that means for you?" And me, he thought to himself silently.

"The only one that tampered with it was you, Peter," Neal replied.

"Me?" Peter echoed.

"Yes," Neal responded, with a bit of hardness and defense in his tone. "When you cut it off. And when _you _left it behind."

"Well, they're doing a full review, which is out of my control," Peter persisted, shaking his head. "I don't want to argue with you, Neal, but that's where we are." This discussion was heading nowhere except to an argument, and he was keen to get to the crux of the point he had intended to make. "If they find any proof of what might have been done to it, Neal, it's not going to look good, and that as well is going to be out of my hands."

Neal shifted again in his seat. "What does that mean?" he asked. "If it doesn't look good?"

Peter paused. He'd been expecting another rebuttal from Neal; an accusation yet again that he had nothing to do with it and that Peter had been the one to touch the device, to alter it, and to let the device out of his possession. But instead there was this basic question with almost a sense of blatant insecurity behind it.

"I don't know," Peter eventually replied. He was angry with Neal, but wasn't quite sure what to do about it. It was a different type of anger. Because what was done was done. After getting the anklet back, he thought that was it. He hadn't planned to punish him for it, simply because he did feel partially responsible having left it behind.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Neal responded. "What did they tell you?"

The 'partially responsible' concept resonated in Peter's mind as Neal spoke, and he realized he was getting too soft. Anyone else would have known that giving the anklet to a third party, indirect or not, was a poor idea. Clearing his head, he gave Neal an unsympathetic look. "They said they'd let me know what they find," he replied irritably. "Can't you ever _think_, Neal? For someone so smart, you do some really dumb things. You know that?"

Neal's expression in return was somewhat disgruntled. "So what now?"

Peter frowned at him. All these questions. He was supposed to have all the answers, yet he felt equally unsure. He didn't let Neal know that. He spoke indifferently. "Now we wait for their report."

"And what if they—"

"I don't know, Neal," Peter interrupted, not allowing the question to play out. "You think I've been in this situation before?"

Neal silenced at that. He was used to threats and ultimatums and direction from Peter. Not uncertainty. That uncertainty was almost more worrisome than Peter being angry. He'd rather his fate be in Peter's hands.

"Now you're quiet?" Peter said, raising his eyebrows. "What the hell were you even doing that you busted your ankle, Neal?"

Neal shrugged. He swallowed back the concerns he wanted to voice, about Peter's control over his fate versus the Marshals. He started to feel the auto-defense mechanism building within him. He knew undoubtedly the last couple of days of his arrangement with Peter had been a negative contribution. He knew somehow he had to right that, and quickly. He tried to think of a response and said the first thing that came to his mind. "Maybe it was the ice," he said.

"Huh?" Peter frowned.

"The ice," Neal repeated. "The ice impacted some sort of sensor, so maybe that's what makes them think it was tampered with." He ran his finger along the edge of his seatbelt distractedly. "Like water on most electronics, except this time it's temperature…"

"Maybe," Peter agreed, considering the response. It was possible.. He rubbed his hand against the back of his neck as he sighed. "You better hope so." For the both of us, he added silently.

They sat there silently for a moment, the question of the anklet weighing over them both.

Peter eventually broke the silence. He moved his hand towards the radio, turning it back on. He'd turned it off when he initially arrived at Neal's. He then glanced over to the younger man, who looked composed but distracted. "Did you eat?" he asked him.

Neal turned his head to Peter, as though surprised by the question. "Breakfast?"

"No, a six AM dinner," Peter responded sarcastically. He rolled his eyes. "Yes, breakfast. Did you eat yet?"

"No," Neal replied. "Unless you count coffee. I didn't have time. Do you know how early it is? "

"Good," Peter replied. "El's been on a low carb kick the last few weeks and I would kill for a bagel. Quick stop before we hit the road, alright?"

Neal nodded slowly as he watched Peter turn his attention back to the steering wheel. He watched Peter's arm move, hand going towards the gear shift to put the car into drive before he could even voice an answer.

"Sure," Neal said out loud, feeling obligated to answer though he felt the decision to go was set before his agreement. Meanwhile his stomach turned just slightly, food the last thing on his mind. His fingers twitched slightly, as he yearned to text Mozzie and confirm yet again that the man believed no one had been able to touch the anklet. He was sure if Mozzie had been uncertain, he would have said so.

Peter clearly wasn't happy about the anklet; and why would he be? But despite that, he wasn't really acting _angry_. He was irritated and frustrated, but it wasn't like the other day when Peter had literally reamed him out and then given him the silent treatment. After lecturing him about the downside of what he had done, which he already knew, he was now offering breakfast. It made Neal a little uneasy.

He felt a strong urge to lighten the mood further. To get further and further away from the conversation that they had just had. So he did what he did best as the car rolled down his block, and looked for an alternative topic. "You're paying, right?" he asked his handler.

"Huh?" Peter answered. As predicted, he smirked a bit. "Paying?" He glanced sideways towards his CI.

"You offered breakfast," Neal responded. "Figured that means you'll pay. Etiquette."

"Etiquette…" Peter echoed. He sighed, drumming his hand against his steering wheel briefly, and then said, "How about this… Let's see if you read the case files. I'm going to ask you a few questions, and if you answer them, you've got a free breakfast. Sound fair?"

"Sounds fair," Neal agreed. He smiled to himself, confident he would be able to answer anything Peter asked. He considered whether it was too early to share some theories as well, Mozzie's included, and decided to save that until later.

His ankle briefly throbbed, a brief reminder of the topic he was pushing to the back of his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Diana started her day earlier than usual at the office, feeling a small churn of anxiety within, silent but insistent, as she took the lead role in coordination across all the agents involved in the current case.

There were a lot of them…

Most of the cases she ran with Peter involved a few agents, and typically they were working together in a common location, or at most a couple of sites. This case was more than a handful of agents, and they were all going to very different locations. Which all required different logistics and modes of travel.

While she enjoyed coordination, and challenges, she couldn't help but feel a sense of concern at the onset of the day that it might be too much to handle for one individual.

While she tried not to focus on that worry, a text came through as she shuffled papers on her desk, trying to get organized for the day. She paused her movement and looked at the screen briefly. It was a text from Jones, which simply read 'coffee?' with a smiley face. She smiled and reached to pick up the phone, quickly typing back 'yes, please. Thx'.

As she put her phone down, she glanced over at the cup of coffee already on her desk, nearly empty. She reached for it and quickly downed the last gulp before then tossing the cup into the wastebasket beside her desk.

She busied herself continuing to get organized for the day and before she knew it, the fresh cup of coffee was within her line of sight, being lowered onto a clean corner of her desk. It was the only clean corner of her desk.

She looked up at her colleague in appreciation. "Thank you."

"Figured you might need it," Jones responded with a chuckle. He held his own cup in his hand. "How's it going so far?" He looked around the nearly empty office. "And how long have you been here?"

"Only an hour…" Diana leaned back in her chair and sighed. "And to answer your first question… Well, other than some of my colleagues thinking that I'm a travel agent or their concierge, not too bad. Most people got off on the right start."

"Most?"

"Danny had a six-thirty flight that he missed…"

"Damn," Jones said, followed by a chuckle. "Well, that doesn't look good. When your one job is to make a flight…"

She shrugged. "He claims the traffic made him miss the gate because there was an accident. Personally? I think he overslept," she replied. "The guy lives in Astoria. Laguardia is a heartbeat away. But he's got tickets to the next one that leaves in…." She glanced at the time on her phone. "Thirty minutes. So he'll be good."

"Okay. What about the others? And what about the boss?"

"The boss…" Diana echoed. She scanned the list she had in front of her of the various itinerary times detailed by agent. "The boss hasn't left the city yet."

"Wow." Jones took a step closer and peered over at the papers on her desk. "You really are kind of a travel agent today."

She glared at him. "That's not funny, Jones."

"It's a lot of detail."

"I know," she said, trying not to sound irked.

"No, seriously, Diana. Why are you –"

"Because," she interjected, not allowing Jones to finish his thought. "If something goes wrong – like with Danny this morning or something more serious – then I'm going to fix it. It's more than just the travel hiccups – If they need a warrant or backup, or anything like that… I've got to know the details of where they are, or where they _should _be."

"I get it," Jones responded. "I do. That's why Peter has you here instead of out there. It's just…" He waved his hand at the papers. "A lot."

"Yeah," she agreed. "It is. Trust me. I know."

Jones studied her and then nodded to the coffee he'd delivered. "Why do I think this isn't your first cup?"

She slowly smiled. "Ah. Yes. The FBI and their investigative skills."

"Hey, c'mon. It's literally in the name," Jones replied, chuckling again. He paused, gaze becoming a little bit more focused. "You got this though?"

"Yeah. Of course I got this," she answered, rolling her eyes.

"And you'll let me know if you need help?"

"I'll let you know when I need coffee."

He chuckled again. "Fair…" But then he gave her a look. "But I mean it, alright?"

"I'll let you know," she affirmed. "Thanks."

* * *

Peter didn't expect their first trip of the case to feel so complicated. But then again, as he'd learned with Neal and would continue to be reminded, this was par for the course.

The first leg of the case involved a remote location. With limited accessibility.

Peter observed their pilot, newly introduced as Ed Donovan, and Neal with a sense of skepticism, edginess, and perplexity.

Of course Neal and the man had hit it off right away. It had taken less than minutes when Neal had shared the fact that he had once piloted a similar helicopter ('How?' Peter's mind demanded to know) to the one that they would be in that day.

As Neal briefly made that statement, ending it with a bright, nonchalant smile and only a quick glance Peter's way, as though discretely searching for a reaction, Peter found himself frowning. What else was in Neal's repertoire that he didn't know about? What the hell else?

When had he piloted? When had he _learned_ to pilot?

Maybe it was a lie. Maybe this was Neal's bonding tactic to get close to the pilot. A core instinct of his to secure an ally.

But as the discussion continued, Neal seemed too knowledgeable for it just to be a lie…

Then again… Neal was a researcher. Neal could have spent the last evening brushing up on these details…

Peter observed with a feeling of unease. He couldn't find an opportunity to get a word in edgewise as Ed and Neal continued to happily converse.

When Neal made the follow-up statement that the helicopter made a 'great getaway option' and Ed chuckled, Peter's frown deepened. This time Neal didn't glance his way.

"Well, despite your expertise," the pilot responded, smiling at Neal, "I promise it doesn't take long, but I am still going to need to give you agents a brief safety overview as part of our standard procedure."

"He's not an agent," Peter responded dryly. These were his first words since introductions. Neal immediately gave him a look, which while reactive still seemed veiled. There seemed to be a subtle indication of offense at the comment, but Peter ignored the hurt feelings and kept his focus on the pilot.

"Well, agent and _guest_ then," Ed responded with a laugh, not missing a beat. "Let me taking you through some of the safety features of the cabin, and we can then get you on your way. Follow me over here please…"

As Ed walked away, Peter stepped forward towards Neal, closing their gap. "When the hell did you pilot a helicopter?" he hissed.

"Is that not in the file you have on me?" Neal responded.

Before he could temper his reaction, Peter reached out and took Neal by the arm, pulling him a few inches closer. "Neal," he persisted. "Did you make it up?"

"Why would I make it up?" Neal responded, frowning.

"Then when?"

"Which time?" Neal shot back with a smirk, tugging his arm free of the older man's hold. "Not my fault your file's incomplete, Peter."

Peter's brow furrowed. He didn't know whether to frown or glare. "Trust me. You're going to fill in some of those gaps."

"Sure. We can talk about it."

Peter immediately riled at the response, despite it potentially being all genuine and not cheeky. "Neal…"

Neal disregarded the comment, moving on as he stated, "You don't have to always point out I'm not an agent, Peter."

"No?" Peter replied, raising his eyebrows. "I don't?"

"No," Neal replied dryly. "You don't."

"Well, it makes it easier to avoid you impersonating one if I just say it upfront," Peter responded. "No temptation."

"Peter," Neal responded, forehead creasing in a frown. "Ouch." He gave him a look. "That's harsh."

"That's facts. Prove I don't need to clarify next time."

"Facts? I made no statements about being an agent, Peter."

"You don't mind the broad assumptions being made by you being here on behalf of the Bureau though, do you?"

"Well, that's just a technicality…" Neal's lips started to curve upward. "I can't control people's interpretations."

"You can." Peter smirked and pushed him away gently in the direction Ed had walked. "And so can I. Get over it."

* * *

Diana found the morning moving quickly, and was thankful for the extra caffeine that Jones had provided, which in a half hour was nearly completely consumed.

Several of the agents had reached out to her already that morning. Mostly they were checking in, confirming statuses of their flights or other transportation. Most wouldn't be arriving at their destinations until the middle of the day, and she was anxious to get to that point in the process so that actual feedback from the locations their suspect had provided would start to come in. That would be a welcome change of pace from confirming travel reservations…

Not only that, but she was hopeful with this they would be able to get what they needed to close out this case.

She expected it to be a straightforward case closure due to all the information that had flooded in on leads.

She didn't expect the complications that would soon arrive.

It wasn't until mid-morning that she received her first strange phone call. It was one of the agents, and they called her in confusion.

"There's nothing here, Diana," came the man's voice over the line after she picked up.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she asked. She quickly rustled through her papers to find the details on that location.

"I mean, it's nothing. It's an empty lot. The guy I spoke to said the building was demolished ten years ago and never rebuilt."

"That's strange…" she commented as she pulled up the page on that address. "And you're at this address?" She read the address from the page out loud.

"Yup. That's the one."

"Are you sure?"

The man on the line scoffed. "Am I sure?" he echoed sarcastically. "Yeah, I'm damn sure. There's nothing here. Maybe the guy misstated the address but there's absolutely nothing here."

"Well, take a look around anyway," she replied.

"What?"

"There could still be a reason he used that address. It might not be wrong."

"Are you saying you want me to walk around an empty lot?" the man replied sarcastically.

"If Peter was the one on the line, you know he'd be telling you to do the same damn thing," she replied, a little curtly. "So do it. A lead is a lead."

"A lead is a lead. Sure thing," the man responded, sarcasm still obvious. "I guess I'll get my steps in today…"

"Call back with any updates," she said stiffly.

With that, she hung up the phone, a little frustrated, and simply stared at the page in front of her. On it was details of the address, which described the location as a convenience store. There were no dates referenced that she could see, and she started to wonder if perhaps there'd been a clerical error of some kind….

* * *

"So, Neal… Given your relevant experience… You want to sit up here with me?" Ed offered as he finalized his checklist before they left. "Can always use a good co-pilot."

Neal eyed the offered front seat through the window of the helicopter in front of them and then smiled as he started to nod. It was as though his reaction was magnetic. "Really? Thanks, Ed. That would be—"

"Not necessary," Peter interjected.

Two pairs of eyes turned towards him.

Peter remained adamant. "Not. Necessary," he repeated. "In other words, No. I don't think that's a good idea." He hadn't said a word as Ed and Neal had continued to be buddy-buddy during the course of reviewing the safety features and procedures of the aircraft. The two had acted like they'd known each other for years, exchanging comments on experiences and advice. Peter had patiently remained quiet, standing close-by on the sidelines. But this time he felt the need to step in.

Still, Ed and Neal continued to stare at Peter like he had two heads or was simply an intruder.

"We have the case to discuss, among other things," Peter replied, keeping his voice firm though the expressions that were in front of him made him feel uncomfortable. He was the authority here, he reminded himself. "Neal, I didn't bring you with me to play copilot."

Neal smirked, cocking his head slightly to the side as he made eye contact with Peter, though remaining silent.

"Up to you guys," Ed responded with a shrug as he walked around to the other side of the helicopter. "Passenger seat's available."

"Appreciate it," Peter replied. "But he'll sit in the back with me."

"Buzzkill…" Neal muttered under his breath, though he didn't directly look at Peter.

"This isn't a joyride, Neal," Peter responded, tone equally low so that only his CI could hear.

"I know it's not," Neal responded, now looking up with a roll of his eyes. "But you could lighten up a little bit, Peter. You realize it's not forbidden to enjoy work. Or to sit up front."

Peter simply stared at him. He then replied, "I do enjoy work."

"Sure…"

"I do, Neal."

Neal tilted his head, scrutinizing Peter and getting nothing from the serious expression that peered back at him. "You can sit up front, if that's what this is about," he said.

Peter forced a laugh. "Trust me, it's not."

"I really don't mind." The teasing nature of the insistence was obvious despite Neal's deadpan face.

"No," Peter responded, shaking his head with a smirk. "We'll both sit in the back. Where we're supposed to sit."

"Supposed to?" Neal echoed. "Is there a federal protocol that I'm not aware of?"

"You want to learn protocol? I have several books I could give you."

Neal paused for a moment, reflecting on the response. "I can't tell if that's a threat or a considerate offer," he said slowly, tone thoughtful. "But whatever it is, I have a feeling that no where in those books does it say you can't copilot a helicopter. Or that it anywhere dictates seating arrangements. "

"Well, until you confirm, Neal, I think it's better to play it safe," Peter replied with a hint of sarcasm.

Neal smiled. "Sure. But I'm usually right."

Peter chuckled. "Right or not…. Yeah… How about this… Just do what I ask you to do."

Neal laughed. "Okay, Peter."

"Okay," Peter echoed. "I like that answer. But let's just ensure the rest of the day you pay attention."

"Sure."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Neal, let's just do this."


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the office, the next couple of calls that Diana received put her mind slightly at ease. Agents were checking in, confirming their locations, and most were matching up with their logistics on or slightly ahead of schedule.

Focused on monitoring the contact with her fellow agents, and confirming the next steps in their respective itineraries, Diana felt the next hour fly by. While a large part of the day's job was admittedly administrative in nature, as she answered the questions that came in or simply took their updates, she couldn't help but feel she was the glue of the operation, keeping them on their planned timetable.

However, that confidence only lasted until another call came in from the same agent as earlier that morning. The one that had claimed 'nothing' was at his location and had voiced a level of disdain that left her agitated.

"Jeff," she answered the line, speaking his name monotonously. When the number appeared on the caller ID, accompanying the ring, she had recognized the phone number immediately and slightly dreaded the next complaint she felt was impending.

"Diana," came the voice over the line, hoarse and slightly out of breath.

"Jeff?" she asked, shifting her posture. That was _not _the greeting she had expected. Despite her initial distaste of his callback, she suddenly felt concern at his tone and reacted by sitting up straighter in her chair. This was an entirely different demeanor on the other end of the phone than earlier in the day. "Hey—you sound a little off. Are you okay?"

"The empty lot," he answered, voice still strained. "It wasn't empty. Diana, they knew we were coming."

"What do you mean?" she replied, suddenly feeling a hollow pang of concern. Something wasn't right. There was a strange way to how he spoke. She could hear distant sirens behind him. "What happened? Who's 'they,' Jeff?"

His tone continued to be breathless, like he had just run a long distance. "There was a package. There was a note."

"Jeff." She spoke his name firmly. "You're gonna need to be a little more detailed than that." Her alarm at this strange conversation was slightly eclipsed by frustration at the brief and vague responses that gave her little information. She needed to get a handle on what was going on. "What package? What note?"

As he started to answer, the sound of sirens grew stronger in the background. "A bomb, Diana."

"What?" she replied, tone rising in surprise. She glanced up and noticed a couple other agents had turned their heads towards her in confusion at her exclamation. She ignored them and forced her exterior demeanor to remain calm.

The sirens in the background of the call continued to grow louder.

"Jeff," she said, a little curtly. "I need you to give a little more detail here. What do you mean, a _bomb_?"

"It…. It w-went off before I could f-finish reading the note.." he continued, stuttering the words slightly. His tone sounded distant, like he was distancing himself from the situation or maybe he was in shock.

Her mind focused on the words.

Bomb.

Went off.

Her heart was pounding. "Jeff. Are you okay?" she persisted. The sirens sounded impossibly louder. While feeling anxious for answers, she was also suddenly less worried about the message and more concerned about his well-being. "Jeff? Are you okay? Talk to me."

"The note… It said they knew…" Jeff trailed off and groaned slightly.

"Jeff," she repeated his name, because she wasn't quite sure what to ask. "They knew what? What is going on? You said there as a bomb. Are you okay?"

"They knew we were coming…"

"Who?" she persisted.

No response came over the line. Instead there was the sound of rustling and some other voices. Diana frowned further, feeling helpless. She kept the phone to her ear. "Hello?" she persisted. "Jeff?" His words continued to echo in her mind. Bomb. "Hello?" she said again. She realized the sirens in the background had quieted or passed.

"Hello?" suddenly came a response over the line.

It was a new voice on the other end of the phone and this caught Diana slight off guard. She hesitated but then responded quickly, her training kicking in. "This is Diana Berrigan, FBI," she said, voice calm and firm. "Who is this? The man I was just speaking to is a federal agent, and —"

"This is Ethan Pascal. I'm a paramedic," the man responded. "The man you were speaking to – he's injured. We're responding to a 911 call from this location and—"

"Injured how? How bad?" Jeff's voice had been different, as though he was in shock, but not once had he mentioned being injured. Her pulse picked up yet again in pace.

"That's what we're here to assess. I'm going to pass you off to someone who will take your information so we can provide you an update once we get him to the hospital…"

* * *

During the first few minutes of the helicopter ride, Peter tried to zone out the conversation between his CI and their pilot. The two were acting as though they were old buddies and neither was short for words. The pilot was currently relaying a story from years ago that involved an exotic location and lots of promiscuous women, and Neal was either truly enthralled or an excellent actor. Either was a true possibility. Preceding this, Neal had been full of his own stories and the pilot had shown similar enthusiasm for his accounts.

Peter busied himself by reviewing the folder he'd brought with him, stocked with details of their destination and other findings on the case. Their destination was a remote one. Not much was anticipated to be there in terms of volume, but what was there was a key focus: a hidden bunker that was expected to contain some critical records and possibly some more clues. He focused on this while the loud humming noises of the helicopter's engines and rotor blades were dulled by the wired headphones he wore.

While the headphones were successful at alleviating the mechanical noise, it concurrently augmented the conversation between the other two aboard. He was an unwilling, disinterested third wheel in their discussion whether he liked it or not.

He was doing his best to zone them out.

It wasn't until Neal literally jabbed him in the side with his elbow that he brought his attention back to them.

The jab slightly startled him, and he turned his head and glared, finding in return a casual expression on Neal's face. Peter raised his eyebrows, silently questioning the blue orbs that looked back at him, and lowered the folder he'd been reading through.

Neal rolled his eyes at Peter, clearly not taking the slightly irritable response personally. He then leaned over, reaching to pull the closest earphone of Peter's headset away from his ear. "Go to Channel 2," he said loudly.

"What?" Peter responded. With the headset pulled away, the sound of the engines and rotor blade were deafeningly loud.

"Go to Channel 2," Neal repeated as loudly as he could. He moved his hand to gently allow the headphone to slide back into place over his handler's ear and then pulled his hand away, continuing to look at Peter expectantly while he waited.

A little disgruntled, but registering the request, Peter raised his own hand to his headset, finding the dial on the side that allowed for channel selection. He turned it in reverse, in his head counting down to the second channel from the fifth they'd been using with Ed.

He got to Channel 2 and dropped his hand to his side. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Now it's just us," Neal remarked, shooting the older man a quick grin, like he was proud of what he had arranged.

Unimpressed at the clear sound of Neal's voice through his headset, Peter simply sighed. "Just us?" he repeated.

"Yeah, Ed said he'll just come over to this channel if he needs to tell us anything," Neal persisted. "He sensed you weren't really into his story. I also thought you might want to talk about the case." Neal shifted in his seat, seatbelt resisting the movement, tight across his chest. "You were also starting to get that look on your face that you get whenever you have a headache. Were we right?"

"How would you know what I look like when I have a headache?" Peter frowned, unable to recall any sort of complaint of that kind he ever would have made to Neal. He couldn't deny at the moment he was _without _headache….

"Were we right?" Neal repeated, appearing eager for Peter to agree with him.

"Definitely not wrong…" Peter glanced towards the pilot, but could only see the back of the man's head from this vantage point. He briefly looked out the front windshield of the helicopter, watching the elevated altitude versus earlier. He noticed it was now slightly raining, but without thinking much of it turned back to Neal. "By the way… You two certainly hit it off. New friend?"

"It's always wise to have the pilot on your side," Neal answered simply, shrugging slightly.

"I don't really think pilots take 'sides,' Neal," Peter responded candidly.

Neal looked skeptical. "Why not? Everyone take sides."

"Not necessarily. Certain professions call for objectivity, Neal."

Neal smirked. "Oh yeah? Like law enforcement?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Right…" Neal's voice was laced with skepticism. "Objectivity."

Peter eyed his CI, slightly curious at the sarcasm of his comment, but then glanced in the direction of the pilot again. He considered calling out the cynicism and getting behind the meaning of it, but decided to overlook it for the time being. He supposed it wasn't completely surprising Neal didn't exactly trust law enforcement. They could work on that. But not now. "So what about the case did you want to talk about?" he responded instead.

"That's just what I told Ed to get him on a different channel."

It was Peter's turn to roll his eyes.

"I mean, what more is there to talk about, Peter? There's not much more to discuss until we get there," Neal replied, a little dismissively. "Which should be relatively soon. But I did want to ask you about the comment you made before," he smoothly began to change the topic. "About the books. About protocol. I know you were kind of just making a point, but do they exist?"

"Yes, Neal." Peter smirked. "Of course they exist. You think our procedures and protocols just exist in thin air?"

"And do the books go into investigative techniques too?"

Peter's gaze became more curious. "Why?"

"I'm just wondering. Could be an interesting read. Now that we're working together."

"Interesting because you genuinely want to learn about it, or because you want to learn how to circumvent it?"

Neal's lips split into a grin. "Peter…"

"I'm serious, Neal." Peter shook his head slightly. There was some static over the line. "You want to learn, or you have an ulterior motive?"

"It's learning either way, isn't it?" Neal interjected, continuing to smile.

"I'm happy to give you tools to learn…" Peter continued, bracing himself as the helicopter hit a little turbulence. "It's the ulterior motive I'm worried about."

"C'mon, Peter. You don't have to always be suspicious."

"I'm _not _always suspicious. It's just sometimes you give me reasons to be."

Neal rolled his eyes again. "Okay, Peter. Forget it. I won't ask to learn about FBI protocol."

A brief moment of silence passed. Peter watched the light rain through the front glass of the helicopter and again questioned his approach as well as what the hell was going on in Neal's mind. Maybe it hadn't been fair to be skeptical of Neal's inquiry. "Well, what do you want to know?" he asked, taking a different tactic.

Neal's response was after a deliberate pause and a glance out his own window, as though he was truly thinking about it. "I don't know what I don't know," he admitted slowly. He then turned back to Peter. "And I don't mean that facetiously."

"Was actually thinking that it came out more clichéd than facetious," Peter responded slowly, unable to avoid the tease.

"I mean it, Peter. You and I have been working together for a little while now," Neal continued, "and don't you realize that I defer to you for most of the procedural stuff when it comes to cases?"

At that statement, Peter chuckled, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah?" he asked with a chuckle. "You do?"

Neal's brow furrowed, bristling at the sarcastic response. "Peter, I do."

"Maybe when you choose to listen you do."

"Peter, really," Neal insisted. "I'm being serious here."

"I am too. You defer to me on procedure? We'd have a lot less problems if you actually did defer to me on procedure, Neal. Procedure is the one thing you don't yet seem to have a knack for."

Neal tilted his head, gazing at Peter with a frown. "C'mon… That's not fair."

"C'mon?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "You realize that _listening _to me is actually part of procedure, right? You want some examples? You want to talk about a couple days ago? Remember that?"

Neal flashed back to what had happened, and the follow-ups thereafter, and then shook his head. "Maybe I didn't that one time."

"Yeah. That _one _time..." Peter echoed.

Neal opened his mouth to respond, but a new voice joined the channel. "Ten minutes, gentlemen," came Ed's voice, smooth and calm over the line. "Should be a smooth landing despite the overcast showers that hit us. Wanted to give you a quick update."

Peter met Neal's eye. How did they know when Ed was or wasn't on the same channel? Who's to say he hadn't been listening the whole time? Not that anything comprising had been said…

"Roger that," Neal responded, seemingly unperturbed by the thought. He continued to look at Peter. "That was quick."

Peter didn't respond.

"Like I said," Ed replied, "it's a short trip." There was a little static over the line. "Alright, going back to my main channel. You know where to find me."

After a pause, Neal said, "Peter, I don't want to talk about a couple days ago. It's a bad example, because in the end, we got the guy in custody and that's all that –"

"Neal, how do you know he's not still listening?" Peter asked, shaking his head slightly.

Neal looked slightly exasperated and frowned. He then said, "Ed, are you there?"

There was silence. Then static. Then silence.

"See?" Neal replied.

"Why would he answer that?" Peter challenged. "Not that I care…" he continued.

"He's _not _listening, Peter."

"Fine. He's not." Peter wasn't convinced but also didn't care. If Neal didn't mind an audience, Peter wouldn't push the topic.

"Peter, back to what I was saying. On protocol." Neal sighed. "I'm serious about reading the books. I have no ulterior motive, just an innocent –"

"Innocent?" Peter scoffed under his breath.

"_Innocent_," Neal stressed the word, "curiosity about the system and the way it works. And what I should probably know about it."

"By 'the system' I assume you mean the legal system, Neal."

"The one and only," Neal affirmed with a charming smile. "The backbone of this country."

"Don't be a smartass."

Neal chuckled slightly at the comment and then continued. "I feel like if can get into the psychology of FBI, Peter, than I could really be more constructive during our cases."

"Right…. Well, our psychology is pretty simple, Neal. We follow the law, we find the bad guys, and that's accompanied by securing enough supporting evidence to prosecute."

"The FBI doesn't prosecute. But thanks for the oversimplification, Peter."

The comment made Peter smile. He nudged Neal with his elbow. "True. We don't prosecute," he confirmed. "I'm impressed you know that."

"Despite what your folder on me says, I'm not stupid."

"Far from it," Peter responded. He nudged him again. "And you know my folder on you doesn't say that. It actually describes you as quite intelligent… Doing stupid things and being stupid are two different things."

Neal shifted in his seat in response, slightly away from the other man, as though uncomfortable. It was unclear whether it was due to Peter's comments or some other cause.

"Seatbelts." Ed's voice was suddenly loud and direct over their headsets. "Sorry, guys, but I might have been mistaken about the smooth landing. Wind's picking up a bit from the east."

Peter observed Neal a few seconds longer, watching the man's hands drop go to the buckles of his seatbelt, his chin and gaze dropping as well, as though following that instruction was a welcome distraction.

Peter sighed and checked his own seatbelt.

* * *

"They're not answering," Diana said, voice impatient.

Jones' eyes slowly cast over his coworker's desk in front of him, at all the papers, and the discarded coffee cup he had delivered earlier, now empty and toppled over on its side. "That doesn't mean anything, Diana. He could be busy."

"I don't know," she stated, brow furrowed. She was clearly agitated. "I just feel like something's not right… First what happened with Jeff, and now Peter's not answering his phone."

"Don't make assumptions, Diana. He's probably just in the air," Jones responded. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Then why do I feel like it might not be? I'm just not so sure… I think Jeff's right. I have a feeling we've been set up," Diana replied. She briefly ran a hand over her face, rubbing at her eyes. "I think we need to get the original suspect back in a room and start asking him some questions. He sent us to all these places…"

"Diana… Really? Set up?"

"Really," she responded, a little exasperatedly. "Even Peter said it himself… This guy was handing out information like crazy. I had a bad feeling. I _have _a bad feeling. It was a little too easy, getting all these locations. Now—"

"Diana," Jones interrupted. "C'mon."

She stared at him, jaw set. "We need to follow our instinct, Clinton. That's always Peter's main advice."

"True," he admitted. "But don't worry about Peter. I'm sure he's fine."

"My instinct says there's a chance otherwise."

The phone on the desk of Diana rang, and her head turned towards it instinctively. Before the second ring was complete, she already had the receiver at her ear. "This is Diana." She forced her tone to be calm and unnerved.

"Hey, it's Beth," came the voice over the line. "Just letting you know I arrived."

Diana exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. The other woman's voice calmed her slightly. "Okay. Thanks, Beth. That's good and you're right on time. Anything yet to note?"

"No, I'm about forty miles from the actual site. I'm picking up the car in a few minutes."

"Thanks. Keep me posted."

"Will do," Beth responded.

The line disconnected and Diana hung up. She ignored the fact Jones was staring at her with a 'See?' expression on his face, and then immediately picked up the receiver again and redialed Peter. It again went to voicemail.

"Shit," she said.

Jones shook his head. "Stop… Don't panic…"

"I'm not," she said, a little defensively. "Jeff just has me a little… nervous."

"It's fine," Jones persisted. "And Jeff will be okay. I'll call the hospital back in a little bit to check-in. I'm sure it's an isolated incident, and we're going to find out what happened. It won't impact the others." He paused. "Did you try Caffrey?"

"What do you mean?"

"You called his cell too?"

"No, just Peter's."

"So try him too. And if he doesn't answer, then we'll try again a little later…" Jones replied with an unaffected shrug. "It'll work out, Diana."

* * *

Peter had just tightened his own seatbelt, heeding Ed's warning, when the helicopter started on its descent. To Ed's earlier warning, there was now a bit more turbulence. Peter actively tried to ignore it, but couldn't help but notice the rain seemed a little heavier. He glanced down at his watch.

Neal had been quiet the last couple of minutes since Ed's comments. The conversation of protocol seemed to have dissipated. Peter wondered if it would present itself again at some point. He didn't mind the questions, so long as they were earnest. But he couldn't help but wonder if Neal's curiosity was more for his own self-interested research rather than education.

"About what you said this morning…" Neal suddenly spoke again, voice low and only audible to Peter through his headset. "You said you didn't know, but… do you?"

Peter frowned. "Do I know what?" he asked, drawing a blank. "What'd I say?"

"The anklet," Neal replied, tone just slightly impatient as though he felt the topic should have been obvious and at the forefront of Peter's memory. "You know I didn't touch it."

The conversation from that morning came back to Peter. About the suspicion regarding the anklet being tampered with.

While Peter received plenty of _defensive _comments from Neal, this was one of the rare instances of defense that wasn't instigated or immediately following an accusation. He realized that in itself, and the fact Neal was even revisiting this particular topic, hinted at a rare show of insecurity from his young, usually overconfident partner.

He wondered if that's what he had wanted to find out about in the books.

He also knew he wasn't going to learn that from the books. Their situation wasn't exactly textbook.

Peter didn't answer for a moment. "Listen," he then said over the headset, response calm. "We'll figure it out."

"Easy for you to say," Neal replied.

"I mean it."

"You'd at least tell them I didn't touch it, right?"

"You didn't," Peter agreed. "Your cohorts, I don't know. I can't tell them anything with absolute certainty. You stop doing stupid stuff with him, and maybe I'd have a different opinion."

"I'm not stupid," Neal answered stiffly.

Peter exhaled in exasperation. "I never said that. Like I told you ten minutes ago, doing stupid things and _being _stupid are two different things. I know you heard and understood the distinction."

"Yeah, well, I don't do stupid things either."

Peter sent him a weary look. "Neal…"

"I always have a reason."

"Of course. Everyone does. Having a reason doesn't mean you've actually considered all aspects of the situation, Neal. It doesn't mean the reason is smart, and it doesn't mean you're _right._"

There wasn't a response, but Peter could hear Neal's sigh.

At Neal's quietness, Peter said nothing further. He wondered if the reemergence of the topic meant that Neal felt some anxiety over the outcome of the anklet inquiry. Despite Peter's own uncertainty of it, he recognized Neal's response indicated some semblance of conscience. He felt a small sense of victory any time Neal seemed cognizant of and apprehensive of consequences.

"Guys," Ed's voice came over the line. His tone had changed. "Are you sure that the coordinates you were given are right?"

Peter looked ahead to meet the pilot's eyes in the rear view mirror. Ed's brow was creased, and his happy-go-lucky demeanor from earlier seemed absent.

"What do you mean?" Peter responded.

"The helipad," Ed replied. "It's nearly non-existent. I'm not too far out, and I can already tell it's in shambles."

Peter sat up straighter in his seat, straining slightly against the seatbelt that was secured across his shoulders and abdomen. He tried to peer out the windshield for a better vantage point, but even the revised angle didn't offer him much of a view.

"Non-existent?" Neal echoed. "But it is _there_, right?"

"Barely," Ed answered, an edginess in his voice.

"Well, can you land?" Peter asked.

"Of course I can land," Ed replied. "I can always land." Despite the statement, there was a tentativeness to the answer that made Peter uneasy. "But are you sure this is right? This is the middle of no where, Agents."

Peter didn't correct the plurality of the title this time. "We knew it was the middle of no where," he replied, a little more forcefully than he intended. "That's why we needed _you_to get here. There's not exactly a parking lot and a welcome map."

"No kidding. But this looks nothing like the description and schematics the Bureau provided," Ed replied. His tone continued to grow more uncertain. The helicopter jolted slightly and then steadied. "This site hasn't been regularly maintained. The report said there'd be a station here. They said—"

"Well, are you sure you're using the coordinates you received?" Peter interjected. He was well aware that despite the doubt he was starting to feel that there was no mistake in what had been provided by the Bureau. And they had specifically gone with this private company for transportation given their acclaimed familiarity with this remote area.

"I've never made a mistake in my coordinates," Ed replied assertively. "Don't know what's here for you guys to investigate, but if you need me to land, then I'm going to land. I'm just saying… This isn't what was described." His hands reached out to flip a series of switches across his dashboard. "I'm flipping back to my headquarter's station for a minute too, fellas. Got to give them an update on the conditions here."

There was static and nothing else over the line.

Peter turned to Neal, who had been quiet during the latter part of the conversation. Neal's brow was furrowed but his focus appeared to be on the pilot.

"Neal?" Peter asked. "What do you think – based on what you know, can he land here?"

Neal looked startled by the question. "What?" He turned his head, meeting Peter's eyes. "Why are you asking me that?"

"The discussion before," Peter replied impatiently. He gestured toward the pilot but then braced himself as they hit more turbulence. "You and him trading stories, and you talking about all the times you—"

"Talking," Neal quickly interjected before the older man could say anything further. "Just _talking_, Peter." He shook his head. "I have no idea if he can land there."

"Just talking?" As he got the gist of Neal's response, at the admittance of the fabrication of most of the earlier conversations, Peter wasn't sure whether to be angry or impressed. Neal had traded stories with Ed like a seasoned pro. "So those stories earlier…"

"They're just _stories_," Neal replied. He flinched just noticeably at another jolt of turbulence.

"Sounded pretty believable."

"Yeah, well, after Mozzie left last night I spent most of the evening reading technical aircraft textbooks and technique manuals…"

Peter stared at him in disbelief. "Neal…" he said his name disapprovingly. How did Neal just lie so naturally? And how did he learn so much overnight? But the thought was fleeting as the helicopter jerked left and then right. He could tell they were descending. He glanced out the window and could see the ground, and the trees, getting closer. Raindrops pounded against the exterior of the aircraft.

"Don't say my name like that," Neal retorted, tone defensive. He then offered a shrug of his shoulders. The shrug almost looked defeated. "I didn't lie to you, Peter; I lied to _him_. But I can't help here. If he says he can land, I'm sure he can—"

Before Neal could finish his sentence, the helicopter's descent suddenly accelerated and the various signals and alerts of Ed's dashboard started to beep in rapid succession, lights blinking. Peter couldn't help but notice most of the lights were red.

Then everything went black.


	11. Chapter 11

"So I spoke with the hospital…"

Diana looked up at the familiar voice of Jones, focusing on the man's words as he approached her desk. She put down her pen, anxiously awaiting his follow-up statement. "And?"

"Look, Jeff's going to be just fine," Jones said calmly. He reached her desk and leaned against the edge of it comfortably. "They're going to keep him overnight for observation, but they don't expect he'll stay any longer than that. He suffered some burns –"

"So there really was an explosion," she interrupted. It confirmed what she already had suspected based on the earlier intel.

"There was a small box that detonated," Jones confirmed, voice slowing slightly, as though pausing to recall the details he'd learned. "Local police have the area marked off, and they're investigating. We asked—"

"Wait. We can't leave this to local police," Diana interjected. She then shook her head. "I'm sorry to keep interrupting. I just… I still have this feeling that something is happening."

"Diana, we have no idea if the box that detonated had anything to do with our case," Jones replied. "This particular area… There's not much there… Even the police said they've had some unusual incidents there."

"Exactly. The address was _not_ like it had been described in the report, Jones," she answered. "That in itself is suspect. And then to have this happen at that site…"

"I'm not ruling anything out," he agreed, raising a hand in an earnest gesture. "But we gotta focus on the facts."

"There was a note," she said firmly. "Jeff told me that. So someone was trying to leave a message. This wasn't random, Jones."

"I'll call them back and make sure they find the note," Jones assured.

Diana sighed. She felt tense. She realized in a way Jones was right. They needed more facts. Right now, she had an injured agent in the field and not much else to go on… "But back to Jeff… They say he's fine?"

"Well all things considered, yeah. They said the burns are superficial and have been treated. He was in a bit of shock, which is to be expected. They kept him just for monitoring purposes. But he's going to be fine."

She sighed. "That's good…" She glanced over at her phone. "I tried a few times but I still can't get in touch with Peter…"

"I'm sure they're fine," Jones repeated his platitude from earlier. "Don't worry."

"And if you're wrong?"

He rolled his eyes slightly. "I'm gonna say it again… Let's go off of facts, Diana. Maybe I'm wrong – and I hope I'm not – but we can't do anything about it until we get more information."

"I know. It's just that now every time the phone rings, I'm expecting something else to go off course," she replied. "I can't help it."

He shook his head. "Don't think about it like that. Just take the calls as they come."

"Easier said than done…"

"You want to step away for a bit?"

She gave him a skeptical look. "Step away?"

"I don't mind manning the phones a bit. You can't sit here all day."

"It's only morning," she reminded him. But then she gave a small smile. "But thanks. I appreciate it. I'm good for now though."

"Alright…" he replied. "Just let me know."

* * *

.

* * *

It wasn't until he was finally coming back into consciousness that Peter even realized that he'd been knocked out.

The first thing that immediately hit him was the rush of pain and pressure to his head.

Then there was the deep blackness he saw slowly becoming gray as light came back into his vision. The first acknowledgement of the black signaled an initial consciousness. Gray began to signal a reality. Gray then started to have colors.

His ears were ringing. Loud, chiming, even pealing noise.

The gray and buzzing existence was fading, but not fast enough.

He heard a loud groan and realized it was coming from his own lips.

"Peter?"

That voice was _not_ his own.

That voice, familiar yet far, mixed with the ringing in his head, sounded concerned. He could see color now, and he tried to turn his head towards the voice. Dizziness washed over him at the movement and for a moment he was flooded once again with only black... His head pounded with pain.

It was then he was inundated by his other senses. It was wet, cold, and there was the smell of something burning. Then as it all came together again, a fuzzy recollection of where he'd been before losing consciousness.

The helicopter. The flight. The sense of crashing.

Those renewed senses jarred him awake immediately, filling him with a sense of panic instead.

"Peter," came the voice again, this time more insistent. "Can you hear me?"

"Neal," Peter responded. There was an instantaneous recognition of that voice now that he was cognizant of his surroundings.

He found his eyes open.

Reality seemed more palpable now. And as that changed, his sense of alarm shifted as he realized what had just happened and considered Neal. How was Neal? He wasn't prepared for the innate sense of worry that hit him at the thought. Turning his head now, he felt a slight sense of relief as he found Neal's face was clear in front of him. Was he okay? The younger man was leaning towards him, seemingly on the edge of his own seat.

He suddenly felt a little disoriented by the worry and panic he'd just felt over confirming Neal's whereabouts and well-being... Where had that come from?

"Peter?" Neal persisted.

Focusing himself again, Peter frowned as he suddenly noticed the bright red smear of what had to be blood near Neal's hairline, extending down his temple. "Hey, are you okay?" He tried to raise his arm to reach out but felt a jolt of pain from stiffness. He managed to raise his arm partially before stopping the movement.

"Am I okay?' Neal echoed, sounding surprised and caught off guard at the concern. "Me? What about you? You were out, Peter. Completely out." Neal almost had a tone of accusation in his tone.

Peter's eyes lingered on him for just seconds longer. The color of the blood was in such stark contrast to Neal's skin, which seemed paler than Peter had ever seen. He then noticed the air around them seemed thick, smoky… The air was also loud, like engines were still running. Or was that just his ears? He realized Neal had been talking loudly in order to be heard.

Peter tried to take in the rest of his surroundings, taking a deep breath.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Neal asked him, voice conveying a sense of urgency. "Peter…?"

Peter wanted to answer but felt a brief moment of darkness overtake him again. When he cleared that misstep, he wasn't sure how to answer as the headache and residual ringing he felt compelled him not to respond. He still wasn't sure he was completely present.

He looked around more broadly, trying to make a quick assessment of their current state. Things still felt hazy. He briefly wondered how long he'd been out but focused on the present instead.

He could feel a hand on his arm now, squeezing gently. "Peter?" came Neal's voice again. "Did I lose you again?"

"No. I'm here." While distracted, Peter didn't push the hand away as he started internally laying out the facts, doing his own internal investigation. He was clear on events up until a point. "We were close to landing," he began slowly, trying to retrace the events that were a blur. A blip in time that had to have been a brief passage of time earlier. His brain felt like it was performing in slow motion. "But something happened." He realized he should look for his phone. He started to feel around for his pocket.

"We barely landed," Neal answered, tone forceful but also as though in disbelief. His hand slipped off Peter's arm as the other man started to move. "He said the landing was going to be rough, but… I don't think he realized the extent of it. Because then it seemed like he panicked. During the landing. He hit the ground hard, and I think slightly off course. And you hit your head, and I…" Neal let out a deep guttural breath.

"And what?" Peter prodded. Neal's tone, out of character, didn't go unnoticed.

Neal's response was immediate. "I don't think he made it, Peter." His voice wavered just slightly. The faltering was brief, and he recovered to then state more firmly, "I didn't want to look, but I don't think he made it. By think, I mean, I'm pretty sure…"

More than a little stunned by that blunt statement, Peter's attention shifted to the front of the helicopter. It was then he noticed the broken glass of the front windshield, and what appeared to be a tree or a very large branch impaling the side closest to the pilot. The rest of his view, including of the pilot, was blocked due to his current angle. From what he could see, Ed appeared slumped down, not moving. Peter could only make out the back of his head. Through the broken glass of the windshield the rain came in, steady taps across the dashboard. The controls of the helicopter were still lit, but appeared to be flickering, shining brightly in distorted illumination due to the slick layer of water.

"Do you think he's dead?"

Neal's question brought Peter out of his scrutiny of the situation. He turned his head back to view the other man once more, again finding himself feeling a growing sense of intrinsic protectiveness. He wasn't sure where it was coming from. Something about Neal's uncertainty and questions was making Peter feel like he had to control the situation.

After quickly giving Neal the once over to make sure he didn't seem injured beyond what was hopefully just a scratch on his head, Peter asked, "How long was I out?" His own body ached, and he felt pain not only in his head, but in his left shoulder and knee. He realized he must have hit the side of the helicopter on impact pretty hard, despite his seatbelt.

"Not long," Neal said.

Peter barely heard the response. His unsteady hands finally located his cell phone. He raised it in front of his line of sight and cursed as he saw the cracked, dark screen. He futilely pressed a few buttons on the phone while realizing it was now unlikely to be more than a glorified paperweight. "Does your phone work, Neal?"

"No signal," Neal replied. "I tried." He paused. "I was trying while you were out."

"Try again. And _how long_ was I out?" Peter repeated his question, ears ringing louder as he raised his own voice. He winced slightly.

"A minute or two," Neal replied, brow furrowing. "Not long." He shifted closer to Peter, free of his seatbelt. "I tried to wake you. And him." He nodded his head towards the front seat but didn't stray his eyes that direction. "I didn't touch him though. Do you think he's—"

"You already said it."

"I know. But do you—"

"He could be," Peter interjected, not wanting Neal to repeat the question. "Yes." He eyed the slumped over figure beyond the seat in front of him, thinking the worst but also not yet willing to settle on that. "He could just be out too."

"Well, I don't know what you can see from there…" Neal replied slowly, tone skeptical, "but I don't think he's just out…" He swallowed and then cleared his throat. "We need to get out of here," he said. He reached for the bar that would release the door beside him.

"Wait," Peter objected, reaching out with more strength and coordination than he'd been able to muster a moment before. His handed gripped Neal's knee, the closest point of contact he could make with the younger man that was leaning towards the door.

Neal exhaled, clearly exasperated.

Peter kept his hand on his knee. "Just hold on."

"Peter, I—"

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Peter asked him.

"No." Neal shook his head. "I already told you that. Peter. "

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Neal insisted. "And what about you? You're the one hurt, Peter."

"I'm fine… But before you go out there, we need to figure out where we are, Neal. It's raining, Ed's incapacitated, and—"

"Incapacitated," Neal echoed, shaking his head again. "Yeah…"

Peter sighed at the response. "Well, what do you see? I can't really see him, Neal."

"Uh…" Neal's jaw clenched and unclenched as he thought of the right words. His eyes darted to the front seat very quickly before he grimaced and brought his attention back to Peter. "You see the tree?"

"Yeah." Peter felt nauseous; not from the impending description of Ed that he was surely about to hear, but moreso from the continued head pain and ringing ears. He took his hand back from Neal's knee, leaning back slightly to steady himself.

"Well, let's just say that the tree and Ed… They're now one."

Peter understood immediately and didn't miss the look of disgust on Neal's face. "So he's probably dead, Neal," he said slowly, answering the repeated question from before. "But you knew that."

Neal nodded, brow furrowed.

Peter started to unbuckle his own seatbelt, groaning slightly. "Neal, we have to check his radio. His phone. We need to find a way to make contact."

"I've been in a car accident," Neal stated. "And once another accident with a boat. But not like this…" He shook his head, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Not when flying." When he brought his hand down, he noticed the blood. "Oh shit." His hand went to his hairline again. "Where'd that come from?"

"I asked if you were okay," Peter stated accusingly.

"I am. I didn't feel it," Neal insisted, viewing the blood on the hand he raised in front of himself. "I didn't know I hit my head." He spoke earnestly, almost annoyed at the fact he hadn't noticed.

"Shock will do that," Peter replied. "Make sure, Neal. Check that you're not hurt anywhere else. Then I'm going to need you to try to get to the radio."

Neal looked up at him. "What?"

Neal was surprised. Peter felt it. He was quickly moving into execution mode of what they needed to do next. Peter's own mind was fighting for stability.

"The radio," Peter repeated. Contact was the main thing he found crossing his mind.

Peter gazed into the blue eyes that suddenly looked at him with a bit of surprise. The blood had smeared further from Neal's temple to his cheek. He resisted reaching out to wipe it. Instead he said, "Protocols and procedure, Neal. First thing we need to do is to try to make contact. Before we move, we need to see what source of getting in contact with help we have, and what supplies we have onboard."

Neal nodded as though in agreement, but then gestured towards the front of the helicopter. "So you want me to go up there," he said, more a statement than a question.

While Neal's expression didn't give much away, Peter had grown to learn more of Neal's 'tells' in their few months of working together. He could see Neal subtly fidgeting now and the eye contact was gone. While his exterior exuded confidence, these small nuances told Peter he felt anything but.

"We're okay," Peter told him. He realized he felt this urge to give Neal reassurance, despite this anxious nervous sentiment he personally felt within. Despite the ringing in his ears that continued and the aches he felt, he was also admittedly thankful neither of them was injured. He was less concerned about their mission and more concerned about understanding how to get in touch with Diana and get a plan to replace the one that had gone off the rails, literally and figuratively.

"I think I need some air first," Neal spoke slowly.

Peter watched Neal's hand reach again for the bar to release the door beside him. It reminded him of a couple days earlier when Peter had given Neal a ride home after the take-down of the suspect in this case; after ten minutes of explaining what Neal had done wrong, Neal had tried to make a similar exit with full intent to get as far from his handler as possible.

This time Neal's movement seemed less assertive and more uncertain. His hand wavered by the handle, as though waiting to be told not to do it.

"Just hold on," Peter told him. His head throbbed. "You're going to go out in the middle of the forest in the pouring rain, and what, Neal? You have no idea where you are. We don't even know if we're on a stable foundation."

There was then the sound of a spark and a sizzle, with some smoke rising from the front of the helicopter. Peter eyed the dashboard and controls as the smoke cleared and realized the previously lit console had gone dark.

"So you want me to go up there instead?" Neal replied, waving his hand now away from the door and towards the front of the helicopter.

"I want you to sit tight for a minute," Peter answered. He raised a hand to his temple as though that might temper the headache. He continued to look towards the front, at the slumped body and the dark console. He didn't want to risk Neal getting hurt, but also knew they needed that radio. He would go for it himself, but knew he was in no condition to try to get into the front. Not to mention Neal was much more agile…

"He showed us where flares are," Neal said. "I can get those. They're in the back." He started to move in his seat, turning and reaching for the compartment behind their seats that Ed had showed him before they took off.

Peter didn't stop him at first. Instead he took a look at his phone again, as though refusing to believe it was broken. Not like he would have had a signal if Neal's didn't. All signs pointed to it being a paperweight in all scenarios.

He heard Neal let out an exasperated breath as he strained to reach the compartment.

"Neal," Peter said slowly. He didn't even have a follow-up statement. Just a hope for Neal to stay with him on next steps.

Neal remained focused, pulling out from behind them a large duffel bag. He struggled only slightly to lift it over the back of their seats and pull it between them. "Here we go." He turned his head to Peter. "What do you think? Flares?"

"We're not doing that," Peter answered, eyes lingering on his defunct phone. He then looked up and met Neal's suspicious expression. "Yet," he clarified with careful intonation. "Also… It's raining, Neal."

Not arguing, Neal let the bag slide down to the floor, where it fell with a thud. However, he added assertively, "I've used a flare in the rain. It's not impossible."

"You'll have to tell me that story another time…" Peter answered. "But I'd like to try the radio first." As he said this, he noticed Neal about to speak. He held up his hand to hold him off. "Neal. We need to get to the radio…"

"I'll do it," Neal told him.

Peter was initially calmed and relieved by the response. Neal agreeing with him? No fight? But then he thought twice, both considering the surprising ease of acquiescence and eyeing Neal's stance. "Okay. Good. But right now you can barely look up there…" Peter started. His head buzzed and he fought back another wave of nausea and dizziness. He knew he had to keep focused. He was suddenly thankful that he'd regained consciousness when he had… 'A minute or two,' Neal had said. Any longer, and he realized Neal might have been out that door…

"I can," Neal replied. As if to prove it, he turned his head to stare straight ahead at the front of the vehicle. "I haven't seen the front yet, but I'm sure I've seen grosser things."

"You don't have to see the front," Peter told him. "We just need to get to the radio."

"Right," Neal said.

"I know you're not a fan of dead bodies…" Peter watched Neal's throat bob up and down with a silent swallow. "We'll do this quickly."

"We," Neal scoffed under his breath. "And you're right. I'm not."

"Neal… I'd do it if I could…" Peter started with a sigh. He winced. 'This goddamn noise,' he thought to himself as the ringing in his head continued. He'd had a concussion before, and he knew the symptoms of it.

"No, that's fine…" Neal turned his head back to him, brow furrowed. "I can do it." He took a long pause. "You know you're slightly slurring your words, Peter."

"I am?" Peter asked in surprise.

"You are." Neal paused. "Do you hear ringing in your ears?"

Peter gave Neal a discerning look. Did he know, or was he hypothesizing….

"I'll take that as a yes," Neal stated.

"Are you a doctor now?"

Despite the quip, Neal's expression remained passive. "I already know you have a headache. I told you I know that look." Neal sighed and scrutinized his handler. "You're not going to pass out if I go up there, are you?" Neal asked.

"No." Peter exhaled, steadying his breathing as another wave of nausea hit. He urged himself not to get sick.

"Because I'll do it… But not until you're sure you're not going to pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out, Neal," Peter told him, with a hint of annoyance. "Are you done?"

"Irritability is a sign of a concussion," Neal told him. "Top five signs."

"Irritability…" Peter echoed. "There you go with the doctor bullshit again." Despite his critique, he could tell Neal's banter, almost playful, was the opposite of confidence. He was nervous. He was buying himself time. He was probably thinking of an alternative. "We need to call for help, Neal," Peter told him. "I need you to try to do that. Maybe Ed will be okay too, but the longer you wait –"

"I'm not waiting," Neal interjected. Sure enough, once Peter tried to doubt him, Neal was determined to prove him wrong. "I was just making sure you were fine." He took a deep breath, and then finally focused his attention more directly on the front of the vehicle.

"Climb between the seats," Peter told him, voice calm and steady. He rubbed at the side of his temple, urging the headache to silence. "Be slow and careful. If anything seems live—"

"Alive?" Neal shot a look back at Peter.

"_Live_," Peter stressed the word. "I'm concerned about water and the control panel. Be careful what you touch."


	12. Chapter 12

Jones was only slightly alarmed when Diana suddenly appeared at his desk, a look on her face that implied whatever she was about to say was urgent.

Meanwhile, Diana's mind was racing. "This is more than coincidence."

He frowned. "What happened now?"

"Beth called back," Diana replied. "She was in a car accident."

"What?" Jones frowned. "Wasn't she just heading to get a rental car when you last spoke to her?"

"Exactly," Diana answered. "And guess what? The car that she was given had brake issues. You think that's just chance, Jones?"

"Is she okay?"

"Yes," Diana replied. "Just shaken up. She was waiting for the police to come when she called."

"The brakes?" Jones asked.

"Yes. She could tell something was wrong when she was about a mile away from the rental office. The brakes weren't responding. So she managed to pull off the main road, but didn't want to risk it so as she found an incline to slow down, she veered off the road." She paused. "Into a tree."

"So you think someone messed with her brakes?"

"Don't you?" Diana insisted. "Jones, I think we need to talk to the suspect. And I think I need to tell everyone to hold their positions. There's too much risk. I can't have anyone else getting hurt."

Jones ran a hand over his head, continuing to frown. "I don't disagree…" he said slowly.

"But do you actually _agree_?" she asked.

"I don't know," Jones admitted, giving her an earnest look. "I hear you, Diana. I do. But at the same time… How would the suspect be able to orchestrate all of this? What if it is just chance?"

"Just chance? How? And how did he suddenly have all those addresses and tips to give out?" she challenged back. "And maybe it's not him – maybe he has a partner."

Jones exhaled. "It's possible…"

"I get that you're skeptical," she continued. "I want to be too. But at the same time, I can't be putting people at risk…" She watched as Jones reached to pick up his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Trying Peter again," he responded.

She sighed. "What do you think I've been doing all morning?"

* * *

Peter tried to remain quiet as Neal prepared himself to move to the front of the helicopter. While he was tempted to give Neal explicit instructions on how he would suggest approaching the effort to get to the radio, it was a delicate balance. Neal was clearly nervous. Giving him too much instruction could cause him to become indignant or resentful. Worse, it could spook him further. Since agreeing to do it, Neal had grown quieter and his mannerisms were more reserved. Quiet Neal was the antithesis of what Neal usually represented; still, the calm, nonchalant expression on his face was betrayed by the thin sheen of sweat across his brow.

Peter noticed the younger man's hands were shaking.

"Don't panic," Peter told him gently.

"I'm not _panicking_," Neal responded, a bit terse. He shot Peter a slightly annoyed look as he shifted closer to the middle of the seat. The only way into the front of the helicopter while still in the vehicle was to climb between the two seats in front of them, and to maneuver into the empty passenger seat beside the pilot.

"Take your time," Peter replied as Neal moved.

Neal grunted but otherwise didn't respond, simply shifting himself more to the edge of his seat. He didn't want advice. Thiswas a simple task. He knew what he had to do. He just had to get the radio. There really wasn't even a strategy required. He wanted to tell Peter to be quiet, but couldn't bring himself to voice the request. He shifted further into position instead, centering himself. He could feel Peter's knee against his side now, and wished to stay there for a moment. The contact reminded him he wasn't alone. He also knew the longer he took to do this, the harder it would be.

Taking a deep breath, he nearly looked back at Peter again but then stopped himself. That would only be delaying the inevitable. If he looked back, Peter would probably say something. And he didn't want Peter to say anything again. He didn't need words of encouragement.

Never mind Peter had been completely unconscious moments before. And was acting like that hadn't happened.

Neal focused himself. This was a basic task that any FBI agent would do without a question. He simply had to get to a radio that was less than ten feet away.

He'd done much more complicated things. He'd been in hairier situations. So why did he feel this aching pit in his stomach now, and like his limbs were made of lead?

His eyes drifted towards the form of Ed in the front seat. Ed, who had been a fun companion. Who he'd actually enjoyed talking and traveling with. Who had, until just a short while ago, been lively and personable. Breathing.

While Neal admittedly had been involved in a number of different crimes in his life, the one thing he always avoided was anyone getting _hurt_. Violent crimes were not in his repertoire. He purposefully avoided partners that preferred to rely on firearms and brute force. He favored outsmarting and manipulating his opponents over physical competition. He abhorred blood and gore.

And dead bodies.

"Neal."

Peter's voice from behind him jarred him back into the present, and he tried to move his eyes away from Ed. The rest of the view in front of him was unpleasant as well, with broken glass, remnants of the tree limbs that had split upon impact, and a dashboard that he now feared could electrocute him. But it wasn't a dead body.

"I'm going," Neal spoke before another inevitable comment from Peter could come first. He moved himself forward, distracting himself briefly by recalling other experiences where he had been forced to maneuver himself into tight spaces. All those spaces on contrast seemed... much cleaner. And thinking about them wasn't helping.

He realized as he moved that there was no real graceful way to maneuver into the front seat. And as he continued to push forward, he also realized there was no way to do it without at least brushing into Ed. He could fit between the seats, but barely. Coming into contact with the dead would be inevitable.

He briefly froze and squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to pull back and find his previous seat again. With his eyes closed, he focused on just the darkness for a moment, but didn't expect the wave of dizziness and nausea that accompanied it. He let out a breath and reopened his eyes, pushing forward.

Peter didn't miss the hesitation, watching with a frown as his CI stretched himself between the front seats. He was wondering about Neal's choice to go arms and shoulders first when Neal suddenly reversed his movement, scrambling backwards nearly into Peter's lap.

Peter let out an 'umph' at the impact.

"Sorry," Neal responded as he awkwardly shifted a few inches away, a little breathless. "Sorry." He rubbed his hands over his thighs, glaring down at the bulky duffle bag that he'd previously dropped to the floor. The flares and other supplies.

"It's fine," Peter replied, shaking his head a little bit. He hadn't been expecting that sudden movement from Neal and it incensed his headache. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Neal said quickly. "Totally fine. Just need to try to go the other way." He now ran his hands over his head, looking frustrated. "I'm good."

Peter thought Neal looked a little clammier than before but didn't say anything. Neal was already moving forward again, this time taking an approach that was more akin to climbing over the seats. With fluid motion this time, one leg going first and finding a platform on the front seat to base himself, he stretched over the seats and pulled himself the rest of the way over.

Peter watched silently with only a frown.

Neal made a mumbled noise under his breath as he finally made it, immediately pushing himself further from Ed once he was settled in the seat. He then turned to view the body.

"He's definitely dead," Neal spoke monotonously.

"You knew that, Neal," Peter told him. "Focus on the radio."

"There's glass everywhere." Neal paused. "And blood."

"So be careful."

"I think his face is gone."

Peter was about to admonish him for the statement, but then stopped himself. His eyes drifted to the form of Ed again. His couldn't see much from this angle and was suddenly thankful. "Don't look at him," he told Neal. What else was there to say?

"I'm not," Neal replied. "But I think it's burned into my retinas now."

Peter sighed. "Does the radio work, Neal?"

Neal leaned forward, reaching for the radio. The rain was coming in from the broken windshield, splattering on his skin, beginning to be absorbed by his clothes. He barely noticed.

"You may need to adjust the channel," Peter reminded.

"I need his headset," Neal began. He sat back.

Peter paused. They had both discarded their own headsets after the crash. Peter barely remembered sliding his off, but now located it beside him. He realized Neal was somewhat correct. The radio was connected to the headsets.

"Don't touch him," Peter replied. "Use mine." He took the headset from next to him and leaned forward to offer it to Neal.

Neal turned and reached to take it from him, a look of relief. "Yeah. You're right," he said.

"You're fine, Neal," Peter reminded him.

"I wanted to sit up here," Neal said.

"What?" Peter asked. He frowned, headache throbbing.

"I wanted to sit up here," Neal repeated. "You said no."

"Well, you can thank me later," Peter answered. Neal seemed distracted, deep in thought. Peter couldn't say he blamed him, all things considered. "Radio, Neal."

"Right," Neal replied, nodding as he lifted the headset to slide it on over his ears. He then reached for the radio again.

"Hear anything?" Peter asked, feeling a little impatient.

Neal didn't respond, head bowed, fingers moving across the controls of the radio.

"Neal."

"Sh…" Neal answered. He continued to focus, turning dial after dial. "There's not even static, Peter." He continued to go channel to channel. "I think it's dead."

"Shit," Peter muttered.

"Now what?" Neal asked. "I can keep trying, but…" He sat back and reached to pull off the headset. "I'm not sure this is going to get us anywhere." He glanced over at Ed again, and then quickly looked away, trying not to gag.

"You're sure it's dead?"

"Everything up here is dead!" Neal raised his voice in exasperation, as he sent a glare towards the backseat. "I think I'm going to be sick." His hand moved towards the handle of the door next to him. "I need air, Peter. I need some goddamn air."

"Okay, okay," Peter replied, trying to appease him. "We'll get air. Come back here," he told him.

Neal pulled at the door handle, finding it stuck. He pulled harder, tugging once, then again, and again. Finally he stopped and then cursed, slapping his hand against the door in frustration.

"Neal…" Peter said more firmly.

Neal exhaled in aggravation, and then took a deep breath. He didn't speak, but started to move in an effort to make his maneuver back to the rear of the vehicle.

Peter said nothing as Neal came back. It took him a moment, finding the balance of getting close enough to Ed without having to brush into him any more than was absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, Peter stayed stationary, wishing for his headache to go away.

As Neal settled back into the rear seat, choosing now to sit noticeably directly beside Peter in the center of the row versus his previous spot by the window, Peter noticed for the first time how wet he was. He reached over and placed a hand on Neal's knee, feeling the water drenched fabric.

"You're soaked."

"It's raining," Neal replied simply.

"You okay?"

"Better than Ed."

Peter sighed. "That's not what I asked."

"It's true though." Neal paused. "Remind me not to take a case out of town with you again."

Peter smirked and moved his hand from Neal's leg to place it on his back. "You don't get a choice on cases. But it's not what I had in mind either, Neal." He paused and then patted Neal's back gently. His shirt was wet as well. "You did good by the way. I wouldn't want to have traded places."

Neal grunted and then shook his head. "Is this the weirdest case you've been on?"

"Weird?" Peter echoed. "Is that what you'd call it?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know what to call this."

"I've had a lot of weird cases," Peter acknowledged. "And while I've been stranded, I have to say this is a new experience for me…" He paused, sliding his hand off of Neal's back. "Where was the first aid kit, Neal?"

"Also back here," Neal replied with a jab of his finger towards behind them.

"Get it, will you?"

Neal frowned. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Well, I'm not hurt so—"

"Just get it," Peter interjected, cutting him off. "And I'm not so sure about you. You're still bleeding."

Neal reached to touch his hairline, where there was a fresh smudge of blood. His fingertips came back red. He rubbed the stain off his hand on his pants and then turned in his seat, reaching towards where he had been shown the rest of the supplies were by Ed prior to take-off. He pulled out the white box, clearly labeled as the first aid kit with bold red letters, and placed it on his lap.

"Is there a pair of scissors?" Peter asked.

"Scissors?" Neal echoed as he opened up the white box. There was the standard array of provisions – bandages, medical tape, disinfectant. He located a small pair of scissors and extracted it from the box.

"Good," Peter replied. He took the scissors from Neal's hand. "Give me your foot."

Neal's brow furrowed. "What are you going to do, Peter?"

"Exactly what you'd do." Peter gestured with his hand for Neal to comply. "I'm going to get hell for this," he said, "but you're going to be the first CI in our department to go through three anklets in a week."


	13. Chapter 13

Diana felt undeniably nervous as she explained her theory to Hughes. Earlier, Jones had provided her encouragement and was supportive of her raising her ideas to the senior agent, which she appreciated; however, that same confidence she had felt after chatting with Jones now seemed to have dwindled.

Hughes was intimidating no matter the situation, with a no-nonsense demeanor that always implied a sense of irk. Normally she had Peter by her side when she addressed their superior. It wasn't as though she hadn't provided updates to the older man herself before; it's just that Peter was usually there to jump in or simply provide morale support.

This time, she stood on her own.

Hughes at least listened, patiently quiet as Diana recapped their morning, trying to give enough but not too much detail. Once all the facts were laid out, she then expressed her concern over the unfortunate coincidence in all the events.

It was the voicing of that concern she was most nervous about.

She paused, letting out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding as she finished. She felt her stomach flip-flop in uneasiness as she waited for a response.

The silver haired man's reaction was initially similar to Jones the first time she had told him. She was suddenly appreciative that Jones wasn't there to hear it. "We've had him in custody with access to no one but his lawyer," he said, voice low and cynical. "How would he possibly orchestrate all of that?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She internally floundered for a moment, regretting to use that phrase – a phrase that showed weakness and inaptitude – so quickly with Peter's superior, and struggled to find her next words. "I know I don't have a lot of substantiated support for this, sir," she continued, "but I really think there's something going on here."

Hughes slowly crossed his arms over his chest, wrinkling his suit jacket slightly. "Have you heard back from Peter?"

"No," she stated. "Not since they left."

"They," Hughes repeated. He frowned. "He's just with Caffrey, right?"

"Yes, and the pilot that we hired."

"Yes, I remember approving that…" Hughes said slowly, a little skeptically. "Apparently a third party had more expertise than our own resources for going into that area…" He shook his head, clearly still not pleased with that decision. "Why don't you call that company? See if they've heard from their own pilot."

Diana paused. Why hadn't she thought of that? "Yes, sir. I'll do that." While a little abashed to have not considered that route of communication, she now felt a little hopeful that it would get her some connection. Surely the company had been in touch with their pilot.

"And the other agents…" Hughes continued. "Jeff… Beth…?"

"Stable," Diana affirmed. As he nodded, and almost looked dismissive, she spoke again. "Sir, I'm just a little concerned there might be another incident. This case seems—"

"Unlucky," he interjected. "Some cases are. Doesn't mean there will be another incident."

"This is unluckier than I've ever seen," she replied candidly. She felt the need to be persistent. If anything happened to anyone else…

She really wished she knew what Peter would do in this situation.

Hughes studied her for a moment and then said, "What would you suggest, Agent Berrigan? Calling off the other agents? I understand many of them are already in transit, is that right?"

Calling off the whole plan for that day seemed extreme. It seemed like the inexperienced, cowardly thing to do. The 'safe' route. Even Peter wouldn't play it completely safe. Play 'conservative,' he'd previously told her. 'Not necessarily safe.' She swallowed and said, "No, sir. But I just want our agents' safety to be the priority."

"Our agents safety is always our priority," he said, a little stiffly.

"I don't mean you implied otherwise," she quickly objected, kicking herself again. "Not at all, sir."

He eyed her for a moment, silent. Then he spoke. "If you're so concerned…" he began, voice softening just slightly. "Then relay the message that everyone needs to be extra vigilant out there... You have no reason to even explain why."

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that."

He nodded back. "You're the acting lead on this until Peter's back. He made that clear to you and the others, correct?"

"Yes," she affirmed.

"Good."

Before another word could be exchanged, they were interrupted by Jones.

He rushed into Hughes office, wide-eyed. "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt," he said abruptly.

Hughes eyes immediately shifted from Diana to Jones, frowning at the disruption. "What's going on?"

"It's Caffrey," Jones said. "His anklet's been cut."

* * *

.

* * *

"So… What do we do now, Peter?"

Peter didn't respond to the question right away. Though worded differently, Neal had asked the same question just a few minutes before. Peter had responded then, but he'd be the first to admit that his answer was little more than a convoluted way of basically saying they should stay put.

At the time, the response had quieted Neal. He hadn't questioned it.

But clearly the answer hadn't been sufficient.

Peter's head still ached. He knew, just as Neal knew, that he had a concussion. He felt tired, and irritated, but determined to keep levelheaded. He had to think ahead, and had to focus on their safety. Without a radio or cell service, he knew that cutting Neal's anklet would have sent an alert, surely to have been received already. It was the only way Peter knew how to communicate with the outside world. And now it was just a matter of time.

"Peter," Neal spoke again.

Peter turned his head, viewing the younger man beside him. Ahead of them, the rain continued to come down through the broken windshield.

A few minutes earlier, Neal had shifted back into the other corner of the backseat, distancing himself but sitting sideways so that he faced his handler. One leg was crossed, bent at the knee, resting his ankle atop his other knee. That ankle he appeared to be rubbing.

"How's your ankle?" Peter asked, nodding towards it. He noticed Neal's clothing still looked damp.

"Fine." Neal's hand moved away from the body part in question. "Are we just going to sit here?" He shifted his posture and moved to put both feet on the ground.

"As opposed to what, Neal?" Peter replied. He raised his hands to rub at his aching temples. "You have somewhere else to be?"

"You mean somewhere other than sitting around in an incapacitated vehicle with a rotting corpse?"

"Neal…" Peter sighed and rolled his eyes at him. "He's not rotting… The body doesn't begin to decompose for at least twenty-four to seventy-two hours."

"Thanks. I'll file that under 'facts I didn't want to know…'" Neal replied.

"You have a lot of facts in there?" Peter responded, raising his eyebrows. As Neal's brow furrowed in response, he sighed. "They can locate us now, Neal. Be patient. Think of it as being in the van."

"You know I hate the van," Neal reminded. His tone was a mixture of disdain and impatience.

"I know. One of the few things about you that's obvious."

"And the van has never had a corpse in it."

"That's true. Maybe you should be more appreciative of it next time."

Neal sighed. "Peter…"

"Neal, I know you hate sitting still…" Peter replied, "but we don't have a choice right now. Try not to think about him," he nodded towards the front of the vehicle, where rain steadily fell. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do about that right now."

Neal's frown deepened. He was quiet for a minute, looking out beyond the front of the broken windshield. "Peter, there was supposed to be a lot more infrastructure here. He may have just misjudged where he landed. If we just—"

"No," Peter interjected. "Whatever you're gonna say, no. Save your breath."

"No? You didn't even let me finish," Neal objected.

"You were going to suggest going outside. Right? The answer's no."

Neal let out a frustrated sigh. "Peter, how can you just be fine to sit here, with a dead body—decomposing or not—when you don't even know when someone's going to locate us?"

"They've probably _already_ located us," Peter replied. "And I'm sure you know that, or you'd have cut your anklet the first chance you had on the outside."

"Fine, so they know _where_ we are," Neal allowed, tone still a bit impatient. "But to mobilize and actually physically get here?"

"How is _leaving _where we are right now going to expedite that, Neal?"

"It won't. But there was supposed to be more here," Neal replied, gesturing towards the window. "The plans I read showed a real infrastructure here, besides the bunker. Not a makeshift, third-world runway like this. I think he miscalculated."

"And maybe he did," Peter replied. "Due to weather, or who knows what. Maybe you distracting him, but nonetheless—"

"Me?" Neal retorted. "What are you talking about, Peter?"

Peter shook his head, wincing slightly at the headache that increased. "Whatever happened, it happened. It's all even more of a reason to stay where we are."

"Why? I don't get why we have to just _sit here_, Peter."

"Because it's pouring rain, and you don't know what the hell is out there, Neal," Peter responded. His own voice was terse, annoyed. It was the headache, and the situation. And these incessant questions about what was next… "You don't know whether any of that stuff you read about on the plans is anywhere near where we are right now. He may have miscalculated by more than you think."

"Well, rather than conjecture… I'm going to go out there," Neal stated. "And I'll find out."

"No, you're not," Peter replied firmly. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

Neal was insistent, and he shook his head. He reached for the handle of the door next to him. "I won't go far," he said. "Just a quick survey of the land."

"Neal," Peter said sharply. "I said no. No surveys. Nothing of the sort." He felt annoyed, having to continue to repeat a negative response to all of Neal's suggestions. But they had to stay put. They had to…

"Peter…" Neal gave his handler a dubious look.

"Neal." Peter's headache pounded. "Don't mistake this situation as a reason to think you are in any position to call the shots. Because you're not. I told you no."

"Peter, a short while ago you weren't even conscious," Neal replied accusingly. "What do you think would have happened then?"

"Well, I'm conscious now," Peter answered stiffly. "You move and you'll regret it."

Neal scoffed at first but then seemed to consider the threat, his raised arm lowering. "I go out there, and what?"

Peter glared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. Why were they having this conversation? Why couldn't Neal just stay patient for a few minutes? Maybe a half hour? However long it would take for help to arrive? Instead Neal forced him to make ultimatums. "Remember our discussion on lockup? How about that?"

"Would be better than being where I am right now," Neal shot back.

The response, though more childish than usual, wasn't unexpected. Their mutual frustration was obvious. Peter rubbed at his temples again, gaze shifting back to the front of the vehicle, to the falling rain. "That's great, Neal. Really constructive."

"Well, you're threatening lock-up," Neal responded, "when we're in the middle of no where, with no timelines on when we'll get out of here. I'll take my chances."

Peter watched Neal reach again for the door. "Just stop, Neal," he said. His tone now was more exhausted, almost disappointed in having to have the discussion. "Come on." He paused. "Please."

Neal sighed, once again lowering his arm, shoulders slumping. "It's not like I don't want to listen to you," he told the older man, glancing down at the discarded anklet that had been cut just a short while earlier. He looked back up at Peter. "But I really can't stay in here with him," he jabbed his finger in the air towards Ed in the front seat. He paused. "You say to just not think about him, but you didn't see his face."

"I didn't," Peter acknowledged. "And I'm sorry that you did." He was actually sorry for that.

Neal exhaled, frustrated, turning his head towards the window. The view outside was distorted by the rain droplets on the glass. "It's not like I'll run. I don't care that the anklet is off."

"I know," Peter replied. "That's not why I said no."

"There's nowhere to run to," Neal continued. "That would be stupid to even try. I don't know where I am." He took out his phone again. "I can't even get a signal. Can't call Moz."

"What would you do if you _did_ have a signal?

Neal gave him a look. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Because it's an insulting question? Or because I don't want to know the question?" Peter replied. He was actually curious to know…

Neal rolled his eyes. "Both. I can get real creative in my answers, Peter…"

"And I'm sure you'll get more creative the longer we're here."

Neal pressed his lips together and returned his point of view to the window. "It was a loaded question," he told the window.

"At least wait for the rain to stop," Peter said. He rubbed at his temple again, cursing the headache. "If they don't find us by then, then we'll maybe see what's outside."

"Your action plan is contingent on rain?" Neal asked in disbelief. He turned his head back to view his handler again. "Really, Peter? The rain could stop now, or a week from now," he continued. "Yet that's your measure of when we'll do something other than sit on our asses?"

Peter shook his head, which incensed his headache further. "No, Neal," he replied, a little impatiently. He felt like he could feel his pulse pounding in his head, like a painful drum. "My point is that the difference in the time frame for them to find us, and the rain stopping, is negligible. So you might as well just wait."

Neal huffed slightly. "We'll see about that."

Peter closed his eyes briefly. He hoped someone was on their way to them by now. He wasn't sure how long he could really convince Neal to stay idle. He felt impatient himself.

* * *

.

* * *

"What do you mean it's been cut?" Diana looked at Jones in disbelief.

Before Jones could respond, the senior agent in the room had interjected.

"Find his location now," Hughes nearly barked at Jones. The man's typically sour expression had reached a new level of annoyance. "Get on the phone with the Marshals."

"Yes, sir." Jones didn't wait a second to be told again before he was rushing out of their view, heading back to his desk.

Hughes then turned to Diana. "Let's get in touch with the pilot's company as soon as possible. See if they've heard from him." His tone was curt.

"Yes, sir," she responded. She moved to take a step away, but was pulled back when he spoke her name again.

"And, Diana?"

She turned to view him. "Sir?"

He eyed her morosely. "Do you think it's possible that Caffrey could have orchestrated your coincidences?"

She raised her eyebrows, a bit caught off guard by the question. She then frowned, brow knitting together. "Sir, I…" she trailed off, clearing her throat. "I don't think so…"

"So it didn't cross your mind," he stated.

"No," she admitted. "No, it didn't."

"But is he capable of it?"

"Capable?" she echoed. "I mean… Sure, I guess…" She regretted the honest answer when she saw Hughes brow furrow further. "But I doubt it."

"He knew where everyone would be. He had all the plans."

"But why would he do that? He has no reason."

"He's got a hell of a lot of reasons. He's a con artist whose freedom has been taken away from him," Hughes spoke stiffly. "I told Peter there was risk taking him on. It was a matter of time."

Diana was about to speak, to defend the colleague she had gotten to know over the last few months and didn't suspect of these events even despite the topic being raised, but she couldn't get a word in fast enough.

"Go make that phone call," he directed her. "And let me know ASAP if they've heard anything."

She nodded and quickly headed off to her desk.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter hadn't realized that his eyes were closed until he found himself being brought back to awareness by a firm grip on his arm, shaking him.

At the contact, he opened his eyes, wincing slightly at the reintroduction of light, albeit darker than earlier.

He took in the sight of Neal directly beside him, then looked down at his hand on his forearm. He frowned; he last recalled that Neal had been leaning against the other window on the other side of the bench seat. It seemed at some point after that Neal had returned to the space directly next to him. Once again the space between the two of them had closed.

"Peter," Neal started. He was frowning. "Listen…"

Something about the way Neal said his name caused the earlier, aggravating conversation about exploring their surroundings to flood back to Peter's mind. Immediately in response, he shook his head, brushing Neal's hand off of him and interjecting before the younger man could finish. "No, Neal. Don't start."

"Start what?" Neal withdrew his hand. He sat back, brow furrowing.

"Whatever new compelling plan you think you have," Peter responded, a bit brusquely. "I'm not getting into it with you. We're waiting."

Neal didn't respond at first, simply pressing his lips together. Then he said, "I wasn't about to offer a _compelling _plan," tone equally curt. "I heard you before."

"Good." Peter said nothing else. His head ached and felt heavy. He shifted in his seat and felt his eyes start to close again.

"I was actually going to tell you to _stay awake_," Neal continued, voice purposefully louder.

Peter turned his head and gave him a look. "I am awake, Neal."

"Are you?" Neal challenged. "Your eyes were closed a minute ago."

"Am I not allowed to close my eyes?"

"Last time you did that, I couldn't wake you," Neal replied, tone slightly accusing. "Remember?" He studied Peter's blank expression. "You don't remember, do you."

"I'm awake, Neal…"

"Right now you are," Neal replied cynically.

Peter sighed, a bit impatient. "So you're going to bother me every time I close my eyes now?"

"Peter, I've already got one unconscious passenger here…"

"Unconscious, Neal?" Peter asked. "You're comparing me to him," he gestured his hand towards Ed, "because I shut my eyes?"

Neal narrowed his eyes at the statement, turning his head forward in the direction of the pilot briefly before returning back his attention to Peter. "You have a concussion."

"So we've established," Peter responded, nodding. "And trust me, I feel it. But I'm fine, Neal. Eyes closed or otherwise."

Neal didn't look convinced. "They say you're not supposed to sleep when you have a concussion."

"I'm not _sleeping_," Peter told him. "I'm resting my eyes." He looked down at his wristwatch. The numbers blurred and he held his wrist at a further distance as though that would change his perception.

"Two and a half hours," Neal told him. "If you were wondering the time."

Peter looked up. "What?"

"It's been two and a half hours," Neal repeated more deliberately and slowly. "Since we landed," he said. "If you call that a landing." He paused. "Two and a half hours since his time of death as well. In case we need to report that..."

Two and a half hours. Peter repeated this in his head. "When did I cut your anklet?" he asked Neal. At least one of them had been paying attention to the time, and he was suddenly thankful for that. He wasn't as much in control as he would have liked. The last couple hours felt like a blur…

"An hour ago," Neal responded. "Give or take." He paused. "The light stopped blinking on it."

"Which light, Neal?"

"On the anklet." Neal leaned forward, grunting as he stretched down towards their feet. He picked up the device from the floor, which he must have also done when Peter wasn't paying attention. As he raised it up, he indicated the light on the bulky part of the anklet, which had gone dark. He tapped his finger against it. "What's that mean?"

"I'm not sure," Peter admitted. "I've never had one triggered and then not recouped for this long…"

"Me neither," Neal replied. He sighed and then dropped the anklet again to the ground. It fell with a thud.

"Maybe you could be more gentle with it," Peter noted critically.

"Oh yeah?" Neal raised his eyebrows. He gave Peter a skeptical look. "I remember you telling me I could take a _hammer_ to it and it wouldn't make a dent. Now it can't survive a one foot drop?"

"I said that because you happened to have an assortment of tools on display at your place after asking me a few too many questions about the anklet…" Peter replied slowly.

"I had the tools out for _other_ reasons."

"Right… Well, sorry if I doubt your domestic handyman skills, Neal."

"Be that as it may," Neal countered, "we now also know this thing is sensitive to _ice_, so maybe it's not as resilient as you initially thought."

"Don't get any ideas in your head for when we get outta here," Peter replied.

"Let's just focus on actually getting out of here, Peter…" Neal retorted. "Maybe the light off means they've deactivated it because they've already established our location," he suggested.

Peter nodded. "Maybe." He looked at his watch again, perturbed at his inability to make out the numbers. "That's probably right, Neal."

"But why'd they deactivate it? What if we moved?"

Peter exhaled but said nothing. Ignoring his watch, he leaned his head back. "The light isn't necessarily indicative of tracking, Neal…"

A moment of silence passed between them, filled only with the sound of rain. Without realizing it, Peter's eyes slowly began to close once again.

"Peter," Neal objected. He reached out to jab him in the arm again. "Hey."

Eyes open, alert once again, Peter narrowed his gaze and jabbed Neal back, a sharp poke of fingers into his ribcage.

Neal grunted in return, pushing the hand away and glaring back.

"See you don't like it either," Peter stated in annoyance. He found a deep blue, stubborn stare in return. "Are you going to keep doing that?" Peter challenged.

Neal shifted uncertainly in his seat but responded with a firm, "Yes." His tone and eye contact betrayed his body language. "You have to stay awake, Peter."

Peter simply sighed.

* * *

Diana had only briefly spoken with the pilot's agency before she had enough information to be able to provide Hughes an update. Rather than prolong the discussion with the other party, she was anxious to give her superior any information they had. She should have expected it would be underwhelming.

The update was barely out of her mouth before Hughes was demanding she connect him to the agency in his office immediately.

After doing so, she stood by a little awkwardly across from him as he focused on the call. He sat at his desk as he continued the conversation directly with them, phone receiver to his ear. His other hand was clenched on his desk in a fist.

She could only hear one side of the discussion while observing him.

"So let me get this straight…" Hughes stated, voice low and ominous. "You received not one but _two_ distress signals from your pilot, yet you chose not to notify us?"

There was a pause as the person on the other end of the line surely attempted a response.

"And that's your protocol?" Hughes continued angrily. "You left a voicemail and didn't think to escalate? Did you not understand that you were transporting a federal agent?"

Another pause.

"God dammit," Hughes clearly interrupted them. "Listen, at this point I don't even care about your excuse for a call tree," he responded irritably. His free hand unclenched and clenched again. "What I care about is the location of your aircraft. I need coordinates, and I need them_ now_. I also need your best pilot to accompany my agents ASAP so that we can get my men out of there….. What do you mean, the _weather_?!"

Diana stiffened at the tone herself. She then heard movement behind her, accompanied by, "Hey, Diana."

Diana turned, finding Jones in the doorway. "Hey," she said, voice remaining low as she stepped further from Hughes desk and closer to her colleague. "What's going on?"

"You tell me," he answered, nodding towards the clearly agitated senior agent. He raised his eyebrows in question.

She sighed, glancing briefly back towards Hughes before returning her attention to Jones. "So apparently the pilot did send distress signals."

"Signals? As in plural?"

She nodded. "That's what they're saying..."

"And they were going to tell us… when?"

"Well, according to them, they tried to contact us to let us know," she continued. "A few times. But for some reason they only had Peter's number as the contact information for the assignment. So they left him a message…"

"And we all know how often he's been picking up his calls…" Jones rolled his eyes. "What kind of agency is this?" He shook his head. "Never mind. At this point I don't want to know. What now?"

She sighed. "Right. Well, they lost touch with the aircraft a couple hours ago."

"Hours?" Jones raised his eyebrows. "And what? Nothing from the pilot?"

"Nothing," she affirmed, shaking her head. "Hughes was asking for coordinates and another aircraft to help us locate them." She mused that 'asking' was probably an understatement for the conversation taking place behind her.

"Well, let's match those coordinates up with what the Marshal's and I have," Jones replied.

"You got Caffrey's location up?"

"Yeah. I've got it up on my computer now. We'll keep tracking it, but the location hasn't changed since the signal came that it was cut."

"That's a good sign, right?" she asked.

He didn't respond.

They both exchanged a look, uneasy.

* * *

Neal sighed, glancing for a countless time at the clock on his phone. As much as he tried to refrain, he couldn't help but often check the time and looked for a signal. He also noticed that while he still had a relatively healthy battery charge that it had diminished since he'd last checked it. He knew he should conserve it.

The rain still came down outside, heavy against the metal outer frame of the aircraft. It seemed heavier than earlier, and the air had a chill to it.

He was feeling on edge and tense. Too much time had passed.

Beside him, he could hear Peter breathing steadily. Despite best efforts, the man had closed his eyes again, and once more had seemed to doze off.

'Like hell he's resting his eyes,' Neal thought bitterly.

Despite that, Neal refrained from waking him again just yet. Peter's slack posture and inactive disposition made him nervous, as he was keen to avoid repeating the experience of being unable to rouse his handler, but at the same time, each time he'd jostled the man awake it had been met with a look of intense displeasure and a similar jab back.

Neal felt keeping Peter up was the right thing to do – it's what he was taught to do with concussions and not to mention it was company – but clearly his handler felt differently.

How Peter could be relaxed enough to _rest_ and _just wait_ in this whole situation befuddled him. He felt there should be a call to action – whatever that action may be – and yet Peter seemed resigned to sit back and wait. To 'rest his eyes.'

But was he relaxed? Or was that the fatigue from the hard hit he took to the head?

Neal's nature wasn't to sit. He wanted to move, to find the next step in their action plan. Sitting here stationary was driving him crazy.

The urge to go outside lingered.

It also wasn't lost on him that he was in an unusual situation… Despite the ominous weather outside, Neal couldn't help but consider what it would mean to leave Peter here. The thought of that filled him with a surprising sense of guilt but also a hint of adrenaline. That quickly turned to anxiety, and second-guessing himself – why would he think to _leave _and take that risk?

Still, a voice in his head (maybe it was Mozzie's) reminded him that it would be a snowball's chance in hell that he'd ever find himself without the anklet, without supervision, and with no one tracking him, for a long time again.

But to go where? Peter was somewhat right. They didn't know what was out there. And now it was getting later in the day, darker, and weather was not subsiding. Where did he think he could really go? Despite the obvious shortcomings of their situation, they were in a shelter, for better or for worse.

Who cares _what _is or isn't out there? the voice inside him asked. Freedom is out there.

A freedom that would be farther from reach than ever before if he was caught, he reminded himself. If he was caught, his whole arrangement would immediately end. There was a chance he could be successful, and escape, find a signal, get a plan… But… What would that chance give him? Was it worth it? After all, he was somewhat used to his routine with Peter. There were things he didn't like, and things he still needed to figure out, but it was a purpose each day anyway. Was he willing to just let that go?

As he watched Peter, chest rising and falling, he was reminded again of the feeling from an hour or so ago when he couldn't wake the man. He hadn't liked that feeling at all. That hadn't felt like an opportunity for freedom. That had felt like danger. Like an emergency.

And for that reason, he found himself nudging Peter again, though this time not as sharply or abruptly. The man didn't respond at first, and Neal pushed a little harder.

Peter's eyes opened again, though this time he didn't push the hand away. "I told you… You can stop doing that," Peter chided him, shifting in his seat and folding his arms across his chest. He looked uncomfortable.

Neal didn't respond at first, content that Peter kept his eyes open and didn't look too irritated. He then stated simply, "It's getting later."

"And weather's still bad," Peter noted, peering out past the windows. "Can't tell if it's darker or rainier."

"It's both," Neal stated.

"Both…" Peter echoed. "Of course, both…" He pulled his arm out from its tucked position against his chest and looked at his watch again. He then held it further away. "Dammit."

Neal observed him. "Still blurry?"

Peter's brows knit together as he shot Neal a look. "What?"

"Your vision."

"How do you know that?"

Neal shrugged.

"I didn't say anything," Peter persisted.

"It was just a hunch," Neal replied. "Not to mention it's a common side effect of a concussion."

"Enough speculation, Neal," Peter answered, a little irritably.

"Is it just blurry or double-vision?" Neal asked.

"And what would you do, depending on the answer?" Peter asked.

Neal sighed and leaned back in his seat, looking to his right out the window. He wasn't accustomed to Peter being so testy. Peter was usually more a voice of reason.

"Look, I'm fine, Dr. Caffrey," Peter responded. He then softened his tone slightly. "And you don't have to do anything, because they should be here soon. Did you check your phone again?"

With attention still out the window, Neal responded with his own sarcasm. "Check my phone? Good idea, Peter. It's likely that the increasingly bad weather would have improved my signal." As Peter rolled his eyes, Neal continued. "Yes, I checked the phone, Peter. And no – while it may shock you, there's not even a hint of a signal yet."

"Even better that we've stayed put then," Peter persisted. "So there's no mistaking our coordinates."

"What good are coordinates when it's dark and raining?"

Peter sighed, leaning his head back. The headache had barely subsided, but was now accompanied by immense fatigue.

"Peter."

"Hm." Peter lifted his head and turned to view the younger man beside him again.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question," Neal insisted.

Peter frowned. "What wasn't?"

"What good are coordinates when it's getting darker? And it's raining?"

"Weather doesn't change coordinates, Neal."

"But _getting to _those coordinates gets harder, Peter. Look where it got us."

Peter seemed to think about that for a moment. But then he asked, "Did Ed have a phone, Neal?"

Neal's expression changed. He eyed Peter skeptically. "I don't know and I'm not checking."

"It's possibly his phone could –"

"No." Neal's voice was adamant. "No. I am not going up there again."

"Neal, if he does have one, then—"

"NO. I'm not _touching him_," Neal persisted, voice rising. "If you want to check, then you're more than welcome to go up there yourself," he continued stubbornly. "I'm not doing it."

"Fine, fine…" Peter responded. He reached beside him and patted Neal's leg. "Forget it."

Neal pushed the hand away. "What would it do, anyway?" he spoke, as though defending his reaction. "I'm not doing it, but even if I did, what would that accomplish? You already said it yourself- the anklet tells them where we are. More accurately than we ever could. What's a phone—"

"It's fine…" Peter interjected, shushing him. "I won't ask you to do it."

Neal took a deep breath and then exhaled, almost as though in relief. He leaned back against his seat beside Peter, angling his head to keep his eyes on the older man. "Just stay awake, Peter."

"They'll be here soon," Peter responded.

* * *

Though it was hard for her to concentrate, Diana had to force herself back on the broader case for a short while. She checked in with other agents, fearful of more coincidental disruptions to their progress. Fearful of someone else becoming incapacitated or injured. Fortunately the next few calls she fielded had normal progress. The agents she spoke to were on course, with nothing unusual to report. Despite this, she reminded them all to be vigilant.

When she made her way back to Hughes and Jones, they were in a conference room with another agent sitting with them.

Hughes looked up at her entry to the room, nodding at her approvingly. She moved into the room and took a seat at the table next to Jones.

"So the good news…" Hughes spoke, voice calm yet morose. "Is that we know where Peter was. We have coordinates from both the helicopter itself, which their agency has verified verbally and through a formal transmission, and we have the coordinates from the Marshals, from Caffrey's anklet. And the two match."

Diana sighed, feeling a little comfort at that. "So they haven't moved."

"Or the anklet hasn't," Hughes said sardonically, eyeing her from across the table. "There's no telling where Caffrey is now. Or whether they're together."

"He's with Peter," Diana stated, frowning.

"We don't know that," Hughes replied stiffly. "He could be, and they could be right at these coordinates, or he could be miles away by now if this was part of some sort of plan of his…"

"Plan?" she echoed. She was a little surprised again by their senior agent's default to a pessimism about their CI, but also realized that was probably a conservative measure… If asked, would she risk her career on betting he hadn't done something? She frowned.

"We've been checking the coordinates of the anklet continuously," Jones spoke up. "There's been a change of only a degree or so in the last couple of hours. So wherever it was cut, that's where it is now."

"And like Hughes mentioned, it matches the aircraft," the other agent stated.

Diana looked at that agent across the table. "I'm Diana by the way," she told him.

"Gerry," he answered.

They nodded in mutual acquaintance.

"I don't care so much where the hardware is," Hughes stated brusquely. "I'd like to find my agent. But the bad news is that weather and daylight is against us."

"You have the coordinates," Diana started.

"We do," Hughes affirmed. "And I have Gerry, who was ready to operationalize a team to get in there with the aircraft, but the helicopter agency, the ones who are the so-called experts in this location, are advising us to wait until morning."

"Morning?" Diana exclaimed. She felt her jaw drop a bit. "But, Sir, it's—"

"Late and getting later," Hughes interjected, giving her a look. "Trust me, Agent Berrigan. I'm not happy about this either."

"Can we go in ourselves?"

"If we could, we would have to begin with," Gerry stated. "I was consulted with when this excursion first came up. We—"

"And you are _who _exactly?" Diana interrupted. She then shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm—"

"He's got the expertise on whether or not we can get in there," Jones cut in. "Trust me, Diana. Gerry's one of the best special ops agents we have."

"And my team reviewed the plans," Gerry continued. He spoke patiently despite the interruption. "That area is… diverse to say the least. It's a mix of shoreline on the far edges. But most of it is wooded for miles with uneven terrain. The woods are very thick, and even on a good day, you've got to know your way around to be able to find a place to land."

"On a good day," she echoed. Her eyes went towards the window where it was darker than earlier, with storm clouds dropping steady rain on the city.

"We want to get them out of there safely," Gerry continued. "Honestly, I was surprised anything was even there that would be case-worthy. I rarely hear of anyone over there except for some hikers. Though I hear it's beautiful over there in the fall."

"I'm sure it is. But back to Peter and Neal. We're going to leave them there overnight?" Diana asked, directing the question to their supervisor. She was uneasy. "Really? I mean, do we know if they're even okay? You said there was a distress signal. They might need medical attention."

Hughes closed his eyes briefly but shook his head. "Hopefully that's not the case." He paused. "But we have no other choice right now. Gerry's going to organize a flyover leaving within the hour, and—"

"Flyover?" Diana echoed.

Gerry met her eye. "We'll head over the area, search lights on, and check the surrounding areas as well. But it's unlikely in this weather we're going to see anything."

She nodded. That was better than nothing, she supposed. "And what if they try to get out of there themselves?"

"On foot?" Hughes asked. "Peter is smarter than that."

Diana sighed. She wasn't sure how Hughes was confident in this decision. There were so many unknown factors. But perhaps there was really no other alternative…

Finally she spoke. "Fine. It's a plan." She cleared her throat and then looked at Hughes again. "Who's going to call Elizabeth?"

* * *

Neal found as long as he maintained dialogue with Peter, the man was less likely to close his eyes.

And so he forced it.

He was careful now not to focus his words on their current predicament or their next steps. Each time he did, even an observation versus a suggestion, Peter grew a bit impatient. As much as Neal wished to be miles away from his current distance to Ed and this aircraft, he also wished not to cross Peter, his only companion for the foreseeable future and someone whose opinion of him mattered after this. So he forced himself to relinquish any earlier discussions on what they could do, and instead focused on simply keeping Peter from dozing off.

If there was one thing he did with ease, it was to read people and to know his audience. He judged Peter's attention and demeanor as he spoke and adjusted accordingly.

He knew Peter liked to gather information on him. So while keeping it as impersonal as possible, he spoke about himself, things he knew he'd never told Peter about. Little stories, of no consequence.

"I was stranded with Mozzie once." He watched as Peter raised his eyebrows. "Several hours. Car broke down. Middle of a heist and our escape route found us in the middle of nowhere with no cell service. "

"And… You're comparing that to this?" Peter asked him.

"Not really," Neal mused. "We didn't have a cadaver in the car."

"Funny," Peter responded dryly. His expression implied it was anything but funny.

"And Moz was a slightly better conversationalist." Neal paused. As Peter gave him a look, eyes narrowed, Neal smiled at him, flashing teeth. "Only slightly, Peter."

Peter didn't respond, grunting slightly.

Neal quickly changed topics, switching to another story. One that went back a few more years. As he spoke, Peter was initially engaged, looking quite interested, but after a few minutes he could see Peter's attention dwindling slightly.

Concussions really did a number, he realized.

"Peter," he stated the man's name louder than before.

"I'm listening," Peter assured him.

Neal was about to say something else, to joke that he'd answer any questions Peter might have, when something caught his attention. Beyond the rain, there was the hum of something, growing louder.

He frowned, looking towards the front of the aircraft into the only open air they had within line of sight through the broken windshield.

"Hear that?" he asked Peter.

Peter frowned as well, pausing as he also attempted to listen. "Not really, Neal…"

"I hear something," Neal insisted.

"Like what?"

Neal leaned forward, listening more keenly. "Like a helicopter." It grew louder now and he grew more and more sure he recognized that sound. "Maybe that's them, Peter. Do you hear it now?"

"I hear something," Peter admitted. He leaned a little more in the same direction as Neal.

Neal began to nod. "Yeah… Yeah, that's definitely the sound of another helicopter, Peter. I can hear it over the rain. And it's getting closer." For the first time in the last couple hours, Neal felt optimistic. Maybe Peter had been right. It just took a little while for them to come.

They both grew silent, waiting. The sound of rain, beating down on the metal frame of the aircraft in a strong rhythm like a drum, and now this sound of a loud humming, growing louder, held their attention.

A moment later, Neal spotted something else.

"Search lights," he spoke.

Peter squinted out through the front of the aircraft. "What?"

"I see it," Neal insisted. "There's search lights. Far up there." He pointed out in the distance. "See?"

Peter slowly shook his head. "Honestly? Neal, all I see is rain and a whole bunch of trees. All I see is darkness."

"Well, I see it," Neal replied adamantly. "And they're going to see me." He shifted away from Peter, back towards the far end of the seat, reaching for the door.

"Neal…" Peter objected. "Wait."

"Wait for what? Peter, we have to," Neal told him. "We have to make sure they know we're here. They're never going to spot us unless we move." He pulled at the door handle. He didn't care what Peter said this time. This was their chance. "Dammit, is this thing jammed?"

"If they don't see this giant aircraft, they're not going to see _you_ in the darkness," Peter insisted.

"I have flares." Neal forgot about the door for a moment, moving about the back of the aircraft now on a clear mission. He shuffled through the earlier discarded bag of supplies.

"Neal—"

"We've been through this and yes you _can_ light them in the rain," Neal insisted. He felt Peter watching him and he moved quickly. He knew there was a limited window of time before the helicopter would hover, see nothing, and move on.

The hum of that potential rescue grew louder.

With two flares tucked under his arm, he shifted himself back to the end of their row of seats and focused back on the door. He pulled at the handle and then using his full body weight, pushed against it with all the force he could muster.

With that the door budged, opening up to reveal the rain and dark woods. He let out a breath, a mixture of relief and adrenaline. Relief that the door had opened, as he had started to grow concerned about the possibility of having to go through the front of the aircraft to exist – past Ed and through a broken windshield.

He heard nothing but the beating of his heart, blood pounding, as he pushed himself past the frame of the door, out into the wet, cold night.


	15. Chapter 15

Neal felt motivated as he ran, a sense of focus and purpose despite the cold, heavy rain that soaked his clothes and blurred his vision. He was working in opposition of the climate, trying to run faster despite its push against him.

It was admittedly harder out here to make out the sound of the helicopter above (or anything at all) and harder still to make out any hint of the search light he had previously sworn he'd seen. It was dark and heavily wooded; simply avoiding a fall or running into a tree was a hard enough task in itself.

Regardless of any currently arising doubt of what he'd seen, he powered on in that one previously identified direction, the wooded ground crunching under his feet, cautious arms raised out as he ran, the darkness forcing him to rely on other senses to move forward. The rain was somehow deafening and blinding at the same time.

After a couple minutes of running, losing sight of the target, he slowed, panting. He felt a slight ache in his side from the effort. He strained to hear the sound of their potential rescue overhead and felt a sense of alarm that he wasn't as certain of the direction of the noise. Or the noise at all. It seemed more distant now. It seemed almost in his head.

He grunted, frustrated, trying to refrain from being so winded.

He also knew he'd been running 'straight' but as he glanced behind himself to look back towards where he had come from, which now looked like a dark, distant, wooded bleakness, he felt a sense of eeriness and concern.

He breathed in and out heavily, pushing strands of wet hair out of his eyes. Rain continued to beat down. The flares, tucked under his arms, suddenly felt somewhat out of place and inadequate.

He stood motionless, out of breath. A feeling of numbness was overcoming him. It was only getting darker. Now what?

Was that it?

Was the moment, the chance at rescue, over?

He refused to believe that. It couldn't be. But at the same time, some of Peter's last word's echoed in his mind: _"If they don't see this giant aircraft, they're not going to see you in the darkness."_

At the time, Neal would beg to differ – after all, in becoming a moving target, he would surely make himself easily identifiable from the sky despite the darkness and thick tree covering. He was certain of it.

Neal looked up at the darkness and trees, feeling far from infallible now. Rain continued to pour down, and he was beyond soaked.

Was he ready to admit defeat?

Peter would probably chew him out. Tell him it had been foolish to run into the woods like that. He suddenly had a flashback of just days ago, stuck in the car with Peter, arguing over his involvement in stepping into the line of fire to help with the case. Arguing over the decisions he made. He'd been confined to his own home that night. This would be a similar feeling of confinement, back in the aircraft for likely the rest of the night.

It was inevitable.

The longer he waited, the more soaked he got.

Was the only option being stranded in the aircraft until daylight?

He exhaled, ready to turn back. He took a step in that direction.

It was at that moment that a bright light was abruptly shined into his face, accompanied by an unfamiliar voice. "Well, well, well…. What do we have here?"

Immediately Neal's hand rose instinctively to protect his eyes as he winced at the unexpected, blinding light.

Caught off guard, he could see nothing beyond this bright orb in his face. He felt a sudden sense of anxiety at the unanticipated encounter. He responded to the voice loudly, feeling a need to talk over the rain. "Who are you?"

"You tell me first," responded the husky voice behind the light. "You're not Peter."

Neal squinted into the brightness, trying to make out the appearance of the person holding it. All he could see behind the blinding light was a dark shadow, a crude outline of a person. He tried to gauge the person's size. The only thing he could determine at the moment was that the voice was male. Anything else was difficult to make out. He tried not to feel panic. He still felt himself breathing heavily from the run. "Who are you? How do you know Peter?"

"My questions first, pretty boy. Who are you?" replied the other man.

Neal couldn't respond. He found himself feeling mixed up and confused. Exhaustion mixed with this sudden chaos. He hadn't expected to find someone on the ground. He'd been completely focused on the air. The only option had been the air. He now had an ominous feeling that this person had nothing to do with the helicopter he had heard overhead just a short while earlier…

But it was someone who had known they were here.

Someone who referred to Peter by his first name.

He looked up again towards the sky. Rain fell in heavy drops on his face, blurring his vision.

"They're long gone," the man told him dismissively. The blinding light, now recognizable as a flashlight in the other man's hand, moved closer. "Now who the hell are you? Are you with Peter?"

Neal wasn't sure what the risk would be of affirming, or otherwise. How did this person know who Peter was? He wasn't sure if there had been a specific contact for them to meet here. He didn't think so. Peter had described a bunker, something they would have to explore. Not meeting someone.

It was rare he found himself speechless. But this time, caught in under a bright beam of light as though under interrogation, beneath the heavy rain of the darkening day, he was struggling to come up with a position to play.

"Hey. Answer me. You with Peter? You don't look like an agent," the man continued, tone skeptical.

"Looks can be deceiving," Neal responded, finding his voice. He continued to try to make out the description of the man. First rule was always to know your opponent. But how could you do that without seeing them? But something else continued to irk him. "You said Peter. But how do you know Peter? Who are you?"

"Peter and I go very far back," the man said. "I'm the reason Peter's here. How did I know he would save this site for himself? I had no doubt."

There was something in the words that made Neal shiver. The man also seemed unaffected by the heavy rain that continued to pour down. He didn't seem bothered by the weather at all. Neal shifted his weight for another perspective, trying to get another angle beyond the light. It looked like the person appeared to be in a hooded garment, likely a raincoat. "Go far back how?" Neal asked, still holding his arm up to shade his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, are those flares?" the man replied. His hand reached out towards the items tucked under Neal's arm. "What good are those in this weather?" His voice sounded amused.

Neal took a step back defensively.

"You're definitely not an agent," the man told him, readily moving with him. With that statement, he then knocked the flares out of Neal's arms with one quick movement. "Was this your plan? To set off flares? Did Peter tell you to do that?"

Neal felt the emptiness in his arms, where the small weight of the flares had been secured before. He debated picking them up but instead stood his ground, not wanting to potentially put himself in a susceptible position. With the helicopter gone, he didn't need the flares now now. That attempt was past, failed. He took another slow but deliberate step back.

"Oh no, not so fast," the man told him.

Neal stood his ground. The flashlight continued to blind him. Because of it, he still couldn't see the person speaking to him. His eyes objected to the continued blinding brightness.

He suddenly felt very alone, and handicapped of his usual senses.

He debated running, but instead took yet another slower step back.

"If you run, I'll catch you." The man spoke as though he'd read his mind. "I saw you running before- you're fast, I'll give you that, but you had no idea where you were going. I know this land far better than you do. And I know you can't see me, but I'm armed."

"So am I," Neal instinctively lied.

The man laughed. "No you're not."

Neal exhaled in frustration, wiping wetness from his face futilely. "Who are you?" The continued spotlight on him was making him feeling anxious.

"I'm the reason Peter is here," the man responded. "Is he still in the helicopter?"

Neal didn't respond. He wanted to craft a response, but didn't know what the man knew. He didn't know the backstory. He didn't know if they had been watched. His mind was running on overdrive. It was hard to gauge the right response.

"Is he injured?" the man asked.

"No," Neal answered, feeling defensive.

"Why didn't he come out with you?"

"I'm faster," Neal replied. "How do you know him?"

"What about the pilot?" the man persisted. "He injured? He was easier to take down than I expected. But I admit it went a little further than the simple incapacitation I was planning."

"You made us crash?" Neal demanded. His stomach twisted. "How? Why?" Who was this guy?

"My questions. Are you with the pilot or Peter?" the man continued. "And what's your name?"

"How do _you_ know Peter?" Neal asked, ignoring the question. He was increasingly perturbed to not be able to see_ who_ he was talking to. Personal contact usually locked in his ability to deal with people.

"Guessing the answer is Peter," the man replied, chuckling a bit. "What's your name?"

"What's it matter?" Neal responded, wiping rain off his face yet again. "What do you want?"

"What I want has to do with Peter, and not you," the man responded brusquely. "You help me, and you can get out of here. You're not his kid or anything, are you?"

"No," Neal replied. He responded quickly, a little taken aback by the question. And the obvious aversion that the man had to Peter.

"Good. Then you'll help me," the man replied. "Now stop walking backwards. You think I don't notice that?"

Neal stopped. He felt his movement had been gradual enough to be undetected but realized being under a literal spotlight didn't help…

"Here's what we're going to do…" the man continued. "You're going to go back to the aircraft and return to Peter and the pilot. You're going to tell them that the little plan you guys had to catch up with the pathetic excuse for search and rescue that just passed – 'cause I assume that's what this was – worked, and you found help."

Neal felt frozen on the spot. "And then what?" he asked.

"And then I'll take care of things."

Neal felt a chill once again and knew it wasn't the rain.

"If I found help," Neal began, wiping his sleeve across his face to clear rain from his eyes again, "wouldn't I be returning _with_ help?"

"No, they couldn't land here," the man continued. "Have you looked around? Were you guys able to land? You'd have to go to the clearing."

"What clearing?" Neal asked. "How far is that?" If there even is one nearby, he thought cynically.

"Don't worry about that. We won't have to get that far." The man raised the flashlight a little higher, centering the light on Neal more directly. "You just tell him to follow you."

"To where?" Neal continued to squint into the bright light, yet again wishing he could see who he was talking to. Who the hell was this mystery person in the middle of no where, who knew Peter?

"You'll see. Just do it." A hand reached out, pushing Neal against the shoulder. "Let's go."

Neal slowly shook his head. "He won't believe me," he replied.

"Why not?" the man retorted.

"He won't. And I don't have enough information."

"You have plenty of information." The man's voice grew rigid.

Neal was buying time. But he didn't know for what. He couldn't run. Hell, he didn't even know how big the guy was. And Peter wouldn't find him here. No one would come. Real help had passed over them. And despite not knowing who this man was or what he wanted, he didn't have much of a choice other than to do what the man was telling him. Or risk some consequence. He decided to risk it a little longer. "How did they contact me?"

"Huh?"

Neal didn't know if the response was because the man couldn't hear him over the rain or because he wasn't understanding the question. Both were possible. He also realized he was shivering now, the cold settling in now that he'd been stationary after his run, sweat turned cold. He started to estimate how far he was from Peter. He also wondered what Peter would do if he wasn't back after a period of time… Would he try to find him? Would he just stew? Would he fall back asleep?

Neal swallowed. He then set his jaw and kept calm.

"How would this 'help' have contacted me?" Neal persisted. "They weren't able to land. He'll ask how I got instructions on where to meet them," he continued, "if I never made contact with them."

The man pushed him again, this time harder. His voice turned more authoritarian. "Enough questions. Let's go."

Neal exhaled, feeling defeated. A hand gripped his shoulder, pushing him to move.

Diana knew from the look on Jones' face as he approached what the news was going to be.

She sighed, dropping the pen in her hand. "Nothing?"

Jones shrugged before he answered, not speaking until he reached her desk. "Gerry knew what he was talking about," he said. He leaned against the corner of her desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "He knew it was a long shot."

"So nothing," she repeated. "Not even a clue."

"That they could _see_," Jones said, stressing the word. "Like I said, they expected conditions to be like that. For visibility to be crap. It was worth a shot, but it didn't get us anywhere. But we have coordinates. We have what we need to find them."

"In the morning," she replied.

"Morning," he echoed. "Yeah."

"Based on the coordinates, they are _there_," Diana said. "In the middle of no where. They haven't contacted us which means there's no way to contact us. We don't know if anything happened. And we're supposed to just sit here and wait until tomorrow morning?"

"What's the alternative?" Jones asked. "I'm with you, Diana, I am. But what's the other choice?"

She sighed. She didn't know. There wasn't one. "I just can't imagine, just being stuck there – overnight."

"Boss wouldn't want us to speculate," Jones said. "There's nothing else we can do."

"I know," she admitted. "I just wonder what Hughes told El…"

"Neal, what the _hell_," was Peter's initial reaction when Neal returned to the aircraft.

Neal ignored the admonishment and moved quickly, coming through the open door he'd left through before. He didn't know how long ago 'before' had been. Time was now a blur. So much for keeping track.

He moved across the backseat, a sopping wet form, weighted down by his drenched clothes and leaving puddles everywhere he touched.

"Peter," he spoke, out of breath.

"You can't just run off," Peter berated him. "After what? Lights in the sky? Lots of good that did, Neal. Look at you. You –"

"Listen to me," Neal persisted, speaking only as loudly as he had to. "Lower your voice."

"And what, listen to your excuses? You listen to me, Neal—"

"Please," Neal persisted. "You can yell at me later. There's—"

"Later? When, Neal? When you've –"

"Peter," Neal interjected more emphatically. He gave him a purposefully look. "There's a guy outside."

"A guy?" Peter looked at him in disbelief. "What?"

"A guy who knows you, Peter," Neal continued emphatically. "Lower your voice."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Peter sat up and looked out his window, then towards the open door. "Are out of your mind, Neal? No one is out there."

Neal shook his head, wet ringlets of hair matted against his forehead. "We don't have a lot of time. He wanted me to lie to you. He wanted me to get you outside. He—"

"What are you talking about?" Peter persisted.

"Listen to me!" Neal hissed. "He's only a few yards away. I'm supposed to bring you outside."

"Neal…"

"Why would I lie about this?" Neal persisted in exasperation. "Why would I? You're hurt. And he knows you somehow, and I don't think he's fond of the acquaintance." Neal leaned in closer and reached out to grip Peter's forearm. "I need to you to listen to me."

"How is it possible someone's out there?"

"I don't know," Neal admitted, wishing to get past Peter's skepticism. "But he knows you."

"Someone is out there that knows me," Peter reiterated. He still looked skeptical.

"I know, I know. It sounds crazy. It is crazy." Neal squeezed his arm harder. "But please believe me. He's armed."

"Armed?" Peter echoed.

Allegedly, Neal thought in his head. He had so many options running through his head and was trying to decide which one made sense. There wasn't enough time to consult with Peter. Getting him to listen had taken up all the time he had. "Give me your gun, and—"

Peter shook his head and breathed out an audible huff of disbelief. "Oh no. Not a chance. You think—"

"Peter," Neal raised his voice while trying to keep his voice low. There was no telling what the man outside, lurking in the rainy shadows could hear. "I don't think you're understanding me!" He exhaled, wishing he could get his plan across in a convincing way. "I go and tell him you didn't believe me, or couldn't come, or whatever. And then he comes to check and while his back is turned—"

"No," Peter responded. "No, Neal. Whoever it is—"

"You don't know who it is," Neal objected. "We're going to be out of time. We're—"

"You're already out of time," came a voice from behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

"You're already out of time."

Neal felt the blood drain from his face at the sound of the voice behind him, but he didn't turn. Frozen in place, he remained facing Peter, feeling his heart pound. As he paused, silent and feeling further nerves fray, he realized he wasn't sure if his heart had ever stopped pounding from his futile run through the woods a short while earlier.

Though he felt an instinctive desire to turn and get a better look at this other man behind him, to put a visual on whoever this was, he instilled self-restraint. Instead of turning, he locked his eyes on Peter's. Peter's face was illuminated by the spotlight of the flashlight held by the new arrival.

However, Peter's eyes lingered on Neal's only for a moment, and Neal struggled to make out any sort of message there before Peter's attention looked up past him to the figure in the doorway. Neal knew it was important that they communicate, but realized his handler could probably barely see him with the beam of the light in his eyes.

Neal's uneasiness was now mixed with frustration. He had failed to get his message across in time to Peter before his clock ran out and the stranger intervened. Because of that, he had failed to get a game plan aligned, and now he didn't really have a read on what to do next in this situation.

Neal didn't have much time to dwell on his failures. Though he wasn't facing the man, he soon became the object of his first line of discussion. He saw the focus of the flashlight's beam shift off of Peter, and he could sense that he was now in the spotlight.

"You. That wasn't the plan we talked about," came the irritated, husky voice. The voice was too close for comfort, causing the hair to rise on the back of Neal's neck. As the man finished the statement, he accompanied it with a jab to Neal's shoulder blade.

Neal tried to stop the instinctive flinch from the unexpected contact and was only partially successful. "I told him to come," he readily lied. Without any other obvious plan, he knew telling people what they wanted to hear was usually the safest tactic. "We were just going to leave."

"Bullshit," responded the man.

Neal was about to respond again, whether to have Peter support his ficticious claim or to try to appease the other man in some other way he wasn't sure, but could barely open his mouth to form a first word before the light shifted and something struck him in the side of the head.

Caught off guard, he hissed at the explosion of pain in his temple and the ringing in his ear. His hand rose to the area of impact, and he now turned, trying to get a better view of his assailant. The now all too familiar blinding light of the flashlight, refocused on him, caused him to wince further.

"Hey!" Peter interjected at the same time, raising his voice. "There's no need for that."

The flashlight's attention turned back to Peter.

"We were about to come out to meet you," Peter continued, reinforcing Neal's fabrication.

"Oh yeah? Were you, Peter?" came the skeptical response of the stranger.

Despite the dim lighting, Neal was now able to get a better view of his assailant. The man was big, just as Neal had sensed from their earlier interaction, but the hood of the rain jacket he wore mostly shadowed his facial features. Water dripped down from the top of his head to his broad shoulders, trickling across the slick, shiny fabric of the jacket. In his one hand was the now infamous flashlight, but in the other was a revolver. Neal debated as his head throbbed which one of the items had most likely struck him.

He brought his hand down from his temple and looked at his fingertips. There was a small tinge of blood.

"Yes. We were. You can put your weapon away," Peter spoke calmly but with a firm tone.

Neal tilted his head just slightly, not wanting to turn his back again on the stranger, but wanting to get a vantage point of Peter as well. Peter hadn't withdrawn his own gun. He hadn't even alluded to being armed.

His handler's focus seemed to be locked on the other man. He didn't for even a brief moment make eye contact with Neal.

Neal tried to interpret Peter's expression. Was there any sense of recognition as he looked at the stranger? Did this person really know Peter? And if so, how? He certainly knew his name… But what else? Peter's expression gave no indication. Neal wanted to ask, but was pretty certain that speaking at that moment would be ill-advised.

He again cursed his inability to get through to Peter before the situation had turned into this.

Neal's mind continued to calculate options. Usually he knew what the other party wanted. This time, not even knowing the identity of this other man, it was unusual territory. He contemplated what angle to take while the conversation continued between the other two men.

"Put my weapon away? And why would I do that?" the man responded. "And give you the upper hand? Those days are over, Peter."

"You know me," Peter responded. He stated it factually. "How?"

There it is, Neal thought. Peter didn't recognize him. But then again, he thought as he focused his attention back towards the other man again, it was next to impossible to make out the man's face in the shadows of the hood… And the voice– would that be easily recognizable out of context?

The man chuckled. "So you don't remember me?" he asked. "I wondered if you would... Pity. We'll simply have to get reacquainted." The man then shifted his stance, leaning in a bit further though the doorway of the vehicle and looking towards the front of the helicopter.

He craned his neck, holding up the flashlight at an angle to illuminate the pilot, taking the focus off of Peter and Neal momentarily. He whistled as he took in the sight. "So he didn't make it, huh? Must have been a rough landing…"

Neal felt a jab at his side. Startled, he jolted slightly, despite immediately recognizing the source as Peter's hand. He turned his head to Peter again, and saw the man discretely gesturing him to move closer.

"What do we do?" Neal mouthed silently. He knew there were probably only a few seconds of the stranger's distraction that they had for this exchange. When Peter's response was just an insistent look and another hand gesture, Neal silently shifted over a few inches closer to Peter, feeling his heavy, wet clothing tug on him in resistance.

"Holy shit, he's not just dead," the other man commented, shining the light at yet another angle into the front of the helicopter. "Look at that…" Despite the meaning of the statement, his tone was one more of amusement. He let out a laugh. "He lost his face as well as his life I guess."

Neal grimaced at the comment. The stranger seemed fascinated with the grotesque view of the pilot.

Peter looked past Neal briefly, confirming the stranger's continued distraction. He then refocused on Neal and locked eye contact. With this attention confirmed, he gestured downward, towards Neal's feet.

Neal looked down, following Peter's direction. At first he was a little confused, but then spotted the discarded anklet on the floor. He looked back up.

Peter leaned in closer to him. "Take it with you," he said, talking just barely audible for Neal to hear. He repeated, "Take it."

Neal frowned at the statement. He glanced over at the stranger, who was commenting yet again on the gruesome image in the pilot's seat, before giving Peter a look. He whispered back, "Take it with me _where_?"

"Pick it up before he sees," Peter responded quietly. "Now."

Neal sent another cautious look towards the stranger, confirming the window, and then quickly leaned forward to reach down and grab the anklet. It only took a second, and he had then had it tucked into his waistband, out of sight, movement undetected by their new arrival.

Peter gave him an approving nod, silent.

Neal was about to discretely ask Peter what else the plan entailed but within seconds the window was over. Neal winced as the flashlight turned back to them, focusing on his face. Turning his head, he raised his hand to his brow, trying to shield himself while still keeping an eye on the other man.

"You didn't mention the condition of the pilot," the man told him, his voice once again coming from a place of darkness behind the flashlight. He still hadn't seen his face. "You said there were three of you."

"There were three of us," Neal replied. It wasn't a lie.

"He's _dead_," came the response, sounding irritated. "Did you not notice?"

Neal frowned into the bright light and responded, "Does it matter? Did you know him too?" At his response, he felt Peter's fingers jab into his ribs. He knew what it meant: shut up.

The flashlight height shifted, and if a light could be more threatening, it felt that way. Neal wasn't sure if the change in stance was in reaction to his response or something else. He couldn't read the other person when he couldn't even see them.

"What's your name?" Peter asked.

"Well, wouldn't that be too easy…" the other man responded, shifting the light to Peter. "To be honest, I'm not real fond of reintroducing myself. So I'm going to have to let you figure that out on your own, Peter. It's a shame you don't remember. It really hasn't been that many years…"

Years, Neal noted mentally. Like that was any sort of clue.

"Alright, that's enough chitchat. Time to go," the man directed, without otherwise waiting for a response on Peter's recollection of him.

Neal was about to ask 'where' they were going when, although expecting his comment, he felt Peter's hand touch his arm. Acknowledging the direction, he stayed quiet.

"So where are we going?" Peter asked, voicing Neal's silent question. His voice revealed no objection or reaction to the concept of going somewhere. Not a hint of confrontation. Simply a question. His voice was strangely calmer than usual, in Neal's own opinion. Neal noted for the record that he would have gone for the same tone if given the chance.

"You'll find out when we get there," the man replied.

"That's fine. But I don't think I need to remind you that the FBI has our location," Peter stated. "They're on their way to us now."

"Are they?" The man laughed after asking the question. "Was it the FBI that just did that pathetic flyover? The one your friend here ran after it as though they'd spot him? Fat chance… Come on… You think they'll find you tonight? I wouldn't be so sure of that. It's only getting darker. I know your radio is down, and I also know you have no signal here. How exactly are they contacting you?"

The man's knowledge of their situation unnerved Neal.

"We were on a schedule," Peter continued. His tone remained nonchalant. "With specific coordinates. They know where the helicopter is."

"Well, then the FBI's going to have a little bit of a mystery on their hands when you're not actually here, huh?" the man replied. "So much for coordinates. Let's go. Don't make me repeat myself."

Neal glanced from the man, the dark figure behind the ominous beam of light, back to Peter. Questions were going through his mind. On where they were going, but also the man's intel. How had he known they would be coming here, and how did he know about their radio being out of commission?

"Hey, don't look at him," the man directed, voice rising. "Let's go," he barked. "Now."

"It's fine," Peter spoke, clearing his throat. "Let's go, Neal."

"Neal," the man repeated. "Is that your name? Well, Neal, listen to your friend. Let's go."

With that, the man backed away from the doorway, disappearing into the darkness, presumably to allow them to leave.

Neal quickly sent Peter a look. "You told him my name," he hissed.

"You want to use a fake one?" Peter shot back in a whisper. "Would that help?"

Neal narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Just go. It's fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, they'll find us," Peter said, with a surprising amount of certainty in his tone. "We have no choice right now."

"You have a gun too," Neal reminded.

Peter tilted his head, and gave him a look. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Neal."

The man reappeared in the doorway, flashlight pointed at them once again. "I said, let's go."


	17. Chapter 17

Once out of the vehicle, the stranger had directed them to walk ahead of him, indicating an undefined destination with an outstretched arm and a pointed finger.

"Go," was all he said, loud and authoritarian.

Vague, to say the least.

"Where are we going?" Peter posed the question once again, voice calm. The question, a valid one, was met only with a flashlight pointed in the same ambiguous direction ahead of them.

"Go," the man repeated.

And so they went.

The rain had at least subsided. The air was filled with an earthy, organic smell. Neal felt it was the only favorable thing going for them. However, despite nature's small grace, at the same time it was now getting noticeably darker, which was even less desirable than the rain. Getting wet was a small price to pay versus losing visibility. Darkness eliminated most optionality. Darkness made it unlikely help would come, despite Peter's earlier claims, and it made their unknown surroundings even more mysterious.

Mysterious to Neal and Peter, these were surroundings the stranger seemed to know well regardless of weather. He didn't second-guess their direction.

"Walk faster," he told them.

Neal was cold, wet, and despite wanting to deny it, nervous. This wasn't what he had ever envisioned when they embarked on this journey. No possibilities he had invented in speaking with Mozzie about the case had even come close to this. To think he'd been _excited _to come on this trip with Peter, illusions of a helicopter journey and a remote destination – a far cry from a day of paperwork.

He'd probably take paperwork over this current situation.

He was also a little perturbed by Peter's apparent tactic to just go along with their new acquaintance (or potentially old acquaintance, in Peter's case.) He wasn't convinced that was the right approach, but admitted there also wasn't much room to negotiate.

He knew compliance probably wasn't the only part of Peter's plan, but that avoiding conflict and running out the clock until support arrived were probably Peter's main contributing factors. While he contemplated what Peter's thought process could be, he also couldn't help but feel concerned that Peter's concussion was somehow impacting his ability to make a rationale decision on how they should act.

An hour ago, Peter was still exhibiting signs of extreme fatigue. While he now appeared more alert and more engaged, Neal found himself hypersensitive to Peter's mannerisms. As they walked, he analyzed the other man with side-glances. Was his gait steady? If it wasn't, was it due to the terrain or something else? Was he thinking straight?

"Peter," he said, a loud whisper a few minutes into their walk.

Peter barely turned his head but glanced his way as they walked. "What?"

"How's your vision?" Neal asked.

"Fine, Neal," Peter responded, somewhat gruffly.

"It's normal?"

"I'm fine," Peter told him.

Neal sighed, not completely comforted by the response.

After walking a couple more minutes silently, in a direction within the trees and thick bushes that seemed to offer nothing but the same scenery as far as they could see, Neal felt restless.

As he scrutinized their direction, wanting to ensure he could keep track of the location of the aircraft behind them, he admittedly could not confirm whether this was the direction he had run earlier. Was this north? West? South? He had no idea.

Where was this guy taking them? And for what?

Distractedly, his hand went towards his waistband, where his severed anklet was tucked away, hidden below his loose shirt. He felt the bulk of the equipment briefly and, reassured it was still there, dropped his hand to his side.

Was anyone monitoring it? Seeing their coordinates change?

Did they think he was running?

Would they speculate, given the apparent 'suspicion' around the last anklet?

He craned his neck to look behind them, taking in again the appearance of the hooded man, his face still shadowed, leaving more to the imagination than to the eye. The flashlight remained on, the hood remained up, and visibility of the man's face was still limited.

"Hey!" Neal called back to the stranger, who lagged them by several feet. The man was close enough to avoid them getting a head start but not far enough to let them lose sight that a gun was casually pointed at them. "What's your name?"

"Neal," Peter warned, voice low but terse enough to be admonishing. His head now turned fully towards Neal this time. "Hey. Don't."

Hearing the tone of his handler, Neal now turned back towards him, putting his back once again to the stranger as they continued to walk. "Don't you want to know his name?" he whispered back to Peter unrelentingly.

"My name?" the stranger called back. "Ask your friend! He knows my name!"

Neal glanced back once more at the dark figure trailing them, narrowing his eyes slightly, and then turned his attention back to Peter. "Do you?" he asked quietly. "Peter, _how_ do you know him?"

"I don't know, Neal," Peter replied. The response was earnest. Their footsteps crunched over wet branches.

"Do you _really_ not know?" Neal persisted. "Or you don't want to tell me?"

"Neal, why wouldn't I want to tell you…" Peter replied, tone exasperated.

"I don't know. Maybe you don't. I don't want you knowing all my acquaintances, and maybe you have some of those too."

"If roles were reversed, and you knew him – would you tell me?" Peter glanced back over at the younger man, giving him a slightly incredulous look.

"If I'm going to be honest, it would depend how I knew him," Neal initially replied, catching the roll of Peter's eyes before he then added, "But yes, I probably would." He paused. "But he's definitely knows you. He knew your name."

"Trust me, I know, Neal," Peter responded. "I just can't place from where I know this guy. I've been racking my brain trying to figure it out. It's driving me crazy."

"What about his voice… Do you recognize it?"

Peter sighed. "Can't say it's making any names jump out at me, Neal."

Neal continued, "Would you know if you could see him better?"

Peter exhaled, slightly impatiently. "Certainly wouldn't hurt."

Neal glanced behind them again. The hooded man walked in step with them, keeping a consistent distance.

"Turn around!" the stranger shouted at him.

"Neal," Peter warned.

Outvoted, Neal looked straight ahead again and remained silent, continuing to walk in the vague direction they'd been directed. He counted his steps as he internally tried to gauge the man behind them based on the limited details he'd collected so far. While sparse, he carefully inventoried his observations.

As they walked, he grew more impatient.

"We have to do something," he whispered resolutely.

"Neal," Peter repeated, saying his name more firmly as he looked over at him again. "Whatever you're thinking, don't go there. Don't get that look."

"What look?" Neal shot him a defensive glance.

"_That _look."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, I know that look," Peter replied stiffly. "And all I'm saying is be patient. Don't do anything stupid."

"Like what?" Neal answered, a little defensively. He could feel a few drops of rain as the weather slowly became a bit wetter again. He glared up at the sky through the canopy of trees. "We can't do _nothing_, Peter. We don't know where he's taking us. We are hostages right now. Don't you get that?"

"I get it," Peter said irritably.

"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Neal responded. "If you're not going to do something, then I will."

"Enough," Peter replied shortly, shaking his head. "Whatever you're thinking about doing, put the breaks on it. Remember what we just talked about earlier this week…? Do not play hero here."

"I'm not playing hero," Neal scoffed.

"I'm not having you in the line of fire _again_," Peter responded stiffly. "Don't make any moves without clearing them through me. Understand?"

"No moves?" Neal abruptly stopped walking. "You never told me I could walk. Should I walk, Peter?" His tone was thick with sarcasm. "Should I listen to him?"

"Keep moving!" came the immediate shout behind them. "And enough with you two talking!"

Peter grabbed Neal by the arm, yanking him forward to keep moving. "Stop it," he hissed, squeezing his arm tightly. "You know damn well what I meant."

Neal shook his arm and the taut grip of the other man released. He regretted his outburst, but still felt adamant about them approaching the situation differently. "We have to be smart," he told his handler rigidly, arm dropping to his side. He continued to walk, one foot after the other to a destination unknown. "Just following him to God knows where…. It's not a plan, Peter."

"Let it play out, Neal."

"Let it play out? That's it? Listen, you have a concussion. We have no idea where he's taking us."

"I may have hit my head," Peter acknowledged, "but I am fine. And what I say goes. Do _not _do something stupid."

"Well, if I see an opportunity, we should assess it," Neal replied, almost in a hiss.

"_I_ will assess it," Peter responded back, tone clipped.

"Peter, he caused us to crash," Neal persisted. "I don't know what he has in mind, but I can't imagine it's going to lead to anything good."

"Versus what right now, Neal? You running off somewhere?" Peter shot back.

"There's two of us," Neal said. "Only one of him."

"He's armed."

"So are you!"

"So he shoots you, and I shoot him? That's your plan?"

Neal exhaled, feeling frustrated. He didn't have a good alternative plan. He knew that. But there had to be another course of action than just blindly being told to march somewhere. Once they got to wherever they were headed, it would be an unknown playing field.

"Is it?" Peter persisted.

"No, Peter…"

"Well, trust me, Neal – that's the quick synopsis of what will happen with any 'plan' you might have right now. Just trust me on this."

Neal grunted. But before he could properly respond, they were interrupted by the stranger and received new direction.

"Stop there," came the command from behind them. "Both of you."

Neal first slowed and then stopped. Following suit, Peter stood stationary at his side. Neal glanced over at his handler once, briefly, before turning to face their abductor.

"We're here," the man said, walking slowly towards them, hooded face still shadowed.

Neal slowly looked around. There was nothing significant about where they now stood in the woods versus the terrain they'd been walking through. He shivered, the chill of his wet clothing more obvious now in stillness. "We're where?" he asked skeptically.

"We're here," the man responded.

Neal looked around again skeptically.

"You," the man said, now only a couple feet away and shining the flashlight in Neal's eyes. "You open the door." He shifted the light to Peter. "And you. You give me your gun."

Door? Bewildered by the request, Neal watched the interaction in front of him, wanting to tell Peter not to comply. Wanting to tell him to fight back.

"Don't say you're not armed," the stranger spoke again when Peter didn't respond. "The only reason I didn't take it earlier is because I wanted to see if you'd try anything. That would have been fun for me. But you didn't. And now that option is gone for you. Give me your gun."

"Don't," Neal spoke. "Peter."

"Shut up," the man snapped, not changing the focus of the light, but directing his comments to Neal. "I'm getting tired of you."

Peter was reaching for his holster.

"Peter…" Neal objected, voice softer now.

"It's okay," Peter told him.

It wasn't, Neal thought to himself. It really wasn't. They had to do something.

"That's right," the stranger replied slowly, following the action. "Exactly, Peter…. And don't try anything. I know your safety is on. One move of your finger and— Hey!"

With the distraction on the gun, Neal had taken the option to run. In the moment all eyes were on Peter's holster, he darted away.

He made it about ten feet before the stranger's gun went off, firing towards him.

It missed but Neal swore he could feel the bullet breeze past his ear. Within seconds his ear was ringing.

"Neal!" Peter shouted. The yell was less angry and more alarmed, loud and emphatic.

Neal froze, despite his instinct to keep running. He felt the flashlight on him and also sensed the aim of the gun from the shadows. That invisible target on his head made him shiver.

Where would he have run to?

He didn't know.

But it was an option. He wanted options.

"That was a warning shot," the stranger told him rigidly, walking towards him with slow but wide strides. "I didn't miss that shot by the way. You move an inch further and you'll be missing an ear. Then, it'll be a kneecap. And Peter," he tilted his head briefly towards the other man. "I hear you even reach for your gun while I'm dealing with him, and that's it for both of you." He turned back to Neal. "I'll give you another chance, but then you're done. You understand me?"

Still frozen, Neal nodded, heart pounding. He heard a bird in the distance chirping.

"Say it," the man directly. He stopped walking, and now stood between Neal and Peter, gun focused on Neal.

"I understand," Neal spoke, voice monotone. In his mind he played out a heroic plan where he made a glorious dash forward, apprehending the man after a quick tussle during which he swiftly stole his gun, guaranteeing their safety. But the reality was while he could attempt a move like that, it wasn't likely to be successful. He'd just failed once again. He hated guns.

The standoff continued.

"Peter," the stranger said stiffly. "Get your man in line."

A few seconds passed, and then Peter spoke, voice slightly hoarse. "Neal," he said, voice stiff but not unkind. "Just come here. Don't run."

Neal breathed in and out, trying to steady his pulse while he debated if there was any other move to play. He _could _still run, but it seemed futile. Maybe he shouldn't have stopped.

"Neal," Peter repeated. "Now."

"Do it before I prove my first shot missed on purpose," the stranger barked, losing patience. "And you," he directed his next words to Peter, briefly shining the light his direction before focusing it back on Neal. "Gun, now. And get him moving!"

"Neal," Peter repeated. "Come here."

Slowly, Neal forced his feet, which felt glued to the ground, to take a step forward. He slowly moved towards Peter, inch by inch, each step causing him greater apprehension. He watched in the meantime as his handler yet again complied with this armed outsider, handing over his service weapon without question.

The man tucked the weapon away, likely into his waistband but the obscured lighting with the flashlight made it hard to see.

Neal acknowledged Peter hadn't had a choice, but still felt chagrined. They had just lost the one advantage they barely had.

At that point, he reached Peter's side, steadying himself as he prepared for Peter to admonish him, or even smack him (after all he'd just done _exactly _what Peter had said not to do only minutes before) but instead the man seemed stoic. Neal took a deep breath and exhaled at the lack of reproach. He didn't know if it made him feel any better.

He felt an urge to check whether his anklet was still hidden and secure on his waist but didn't want to given any hint of hiding something, so he kept his hands at his sides.

Instead of checking, he just settled in at Peter's side. When he got close enough, he felt Peter's hand press gently against the small of his back, pressing the wet shirt against his skin. He stiffened slightly at the first contact, bracing himself and then relaxed.

Then the flashlight was again in his face.

"The door," the man told him, repeating earlier words that hadn't made sense to Neal. "Open it."

Neal looked around them again, still seeing nothing remarkable. Even despite the dim lighting of dusk, he could see leaves, branches, trees, but nothing else. "What door?"

"Not so observant, are you?" the stranger replied, chuckling slightly.

Neal bristled at the comment and the laugh. He _was _observant. There was just nothing to observe here. As though sensing his displeasure and impending response, Peter's fingers tapped on his back, as though to remind him not to do anything rash again. "I don't see a door," he admitted, speaking with blunt honesty instead, holding back on the sarcasm at the tip of his tongue.

The flashlight shifted to Peter. "Do you see a door?" the man asked.

Peter cleared his throat. "I don't," he acknowledged.

The man laughed again. "And you both call yourself investigators. FBI even." He walked a couple feet away and shined his flashlight on the ground in front of him. He tapped his foot on the space, the sound resounding with a solid thump, a sound that didn't match the forested floor below them. "Look closer."

Neal stared at where the man indicated but stayed stationary.

"Look closer," the man repeated. "And open it."

Neal swallowed. He felt Peter's hand drop off his back. Taking that as a sign, he moved forward slowly, approaching the man and the alleged door.

Again his mind imagined a scenario where he got the upper hand. Where he feigned crouching to examine the so-called door before tackling the man, overcoming him and getting a hand on both of the guns. It played out clear as day in his head. Peter would later recount how Neal had saved the day.

But he didn't risk erring again. Instead he reached where the man stood, and as the stranger took a step back, he crouched down and pushed some of the leaves away. Sure enough, beneath the forest camouflage there was a wooden board.

There was a door.

Another swipe at the leaves revealed a metal handle.

A door in the middle of no where.

"Open it," the stranger directed.

With another deep breath, Neal reached for the handle.


	18. Chapter 18

A door in the middle of the woods leading underground … Crouched in front of it, Neal couldn't help but be skeptical.

At the same time, he could tell the patience of their captor was wearing thin… Neal's attempt at running had further exacerbated the tension. His requests were getting more terse, and Neal had a sense that unless they followed his command, there would be no good outcome…

It wasn't lost on him that just moments before, he'd had a brief but possible chance to get very far from here, albeit on foot. Yet now here he was, being asked to do something that if he complied would only facilitate getting them even closer to wherever this stranger wanted them. Cornered. Out of sight and potentially out of range.

Still, he couldn't think of a witty or compelling rebuttal, wasn't ready to try to run again, and saw no other real alternative other than risking non-compliance.

There was no 'con' here that he could think of.

Non-compliance was an option, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that risk. He had just tried that tactic, and the bullet that breezed past his temple had been a jarring reminder of what was at stake.

So he slowly gave the appearance that he was willing to comply and that he was following orders.

The metal handle was rounded, appearing well used over many years based on its texture and discoloration. Neal slowly curved his hand around it. It was slick to the touch from the rain, the rain that continued to fall down across the forest and reach them through the trees.

It felt wrong to open this door. There were lots of times he'd purposefully opened doors he wasn't supposed to – he'd been excited about those. This one truly felt wrong.

He was angry at himself for being in this position to begin with. He should have kept running and called the man on his bluff. After the first shot, he should have just changed up his direction. The further he could have gotten, even just a few more feet, he could have used the trees and heavy brush to his advantage.

"Go ahead and pull it open," the stranger directed, tone even more impatient than before. "Use the handle. It's not that heavy."

Neal lifted his head just slightly, taking in the sight of the man's shoes several feet away, a sturdy looking pair of boots covered in thick mud. He wondered if they were steel toed...

As he studied the shoes, raindrops falling, his hand lingered on the metal handle. Maybe he could buy them time somehow, or at least throw off the man's plan in some way to allow them to get back some sort of leverage. If this rain picked up again, visibility would be darker… He could rush forward from his current position and try to overpower the man, take out his legs…

As his mind raced, all these thoughts within seconds, he couldn't help but wonder: was this really Peter's plan? To just let this play out? He considered turning his head to try to get Peter's eye contact, but hesitated. Peter still really hadn't addressed him since he had tried to run.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" the other man asked angrily. "You dumb or something? I just told you, you're on your last chance."

Neal saw the muddy feet take a step closer.

"Neal," Peter said, a tone of caution.

Neal didn't turn to look at him, though he wanted to do so to express frustration. He glared at the handle in his grip instead. He had every intention to get Peter to explain to him later why submission was a default tactic. Was this what it said to do in those infamous rulebooks? _This _was protocol?

"Can you tell me what's behind the door at least?" Neal asked. He remained crouched down but tilted his chin up further to look beyond the shoes and directly at the stranger. The rain was heavier again now, and Neal felt it against his face as he looked up. He added, "Then I'll open it." Despite the boldness, his heartbeat remained calm. His hope to get a better look at this man's face in doing so was futile, as shadows remained the other's convenient accessory.

"You're really not good at listening, aren't you?" the man snapped at him, nearly a growl. He shined the flashlight directly in Neal's face, causing him to avert his eyes and look back down. "I'd open the door myself, but I'm not turning my back on you again after the stunt you just pulled." He then took another step towards Neal, raising his other hand with the gun higher, threateningly. "Then again, I wouldn't have to worry about that if I take care you now." He took yet another step.

"Enough," Peter interjected, raising his voice. "No one needs to get hurt."

"Then open the door and go inside."

It was Peter's turn to ask questions. "What's down there? What is it you want from us?"

"Us?" the man echoed, shifting the flashlight over to Peter. "You mean _you_. He's just the unfortunate chump that happened to come here with you." He paused. "Or maybe I'm the unfortunate one considering how goddamn helpful he's been."

"And why am I here?" Peter persisted.

"Still don't have a clue, Peter? Well, _you _brought yourself here," the man replied. "You chartered a trip here. It was all your own doing. I was simply the catalyst."

"For what?" Peter replied. "We came here to specifically investigate a location. What does that have to do with you?"

"I chose that location," the man answered back stiffly. "Now let's go." The light shifted back to Neal, who was now rising to stand. "No, Neal, don't even think about it," the man reacted brusquely. "Get back down and do what I told you. Open the door."

The light caught Neal's face, and Neal made it a point to keep his expression emotionless. With the brightness in his eyes, everything else was veiled in darkness. He could make out no figures, and not even the shoes. He knew there was little choice.

He'd bought as much time as he could.

He begrudgingly crouched back down onto his heels and reached again for the handle.

This time he gripped his hand around it more firmly, bracing himself, and pulled.

The man had been right – it wasn't heavy. The door creaked open with little effort, hatch opening slowly towards him, more lightweight than the heavy looking board had suggested on first impression. Neal slowly stood as he pulled it, taking steps back with it, leaves and forest debris sliding off the wooden board as it rose. Once he had it raised to a ninety-degree angle, he let it drop down the rest of the way onto the ground with a thud in front of his feet.

He peered over, looking into the entranceway he'd now uncovered with curiosity and apprehension.

He could see a series of wooden stairs leading down into what looked like a dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway appeared to be a brighter light, but he could see no further than that.

"Go," the stranger told him harshly, taking a step around to the other side of the entranceway, a few feet across from them, keeping his flashlight on Neal.

Neal was getting tired of this constant direction. As soon as they did something, there was another command. He stood solemnly, staring down into the underground hallway. He wondered of the origin of this place, considering they were in the middle of nowhere without any civilization in sight. Who would have built an underground shelter, or whatever it was down there, and why?

"We're running out of time," the stranger said curtly. "Now go – both of you – before I use a bullet to coax you."

Neal jumped slightly as he felt a hand brush against his shoulder from behind, but realized it was just Peter beside him. He immediately felt stupid, chiding himself – who else would it have been? Raising his hand to his face to briefly block the view of his lips, he whispered to his handler, "What do we do?" Despite the effort, he knew the stranger could likely tell they were talking – a light was shining on them – but he didn't care.

"We go," Peter responded, voice equally low and only audible to Neal.

"But—" Neal cut himself off as Peter's hand dropped lower, digging his fingers in Neal's side. It didn't hurt, it was more of a warning.

"No running," Peter told him gruffly in a whisper. "Stop trying to think of another option right now."

Neal hadn't been planning to run, but he didn't say otherwise. Neal wasn't happy about it, but he also wasn't willing to challenge both his handler and this stranger. He eyed the stairs to another unknown warily.

The flashlight jerked, the light lurching, illuminating them both in turns in an impatient gesture. "Enough conversation. Let's go."

Neal's mind once again raced with options. He envisioned Peter and himself both acting at once, a telepathic coordination, overpowering this guy. The gun would go off as the stranger made an attempt to fight back, but the weapon would be unsuccessful in finding a target, as they had his arms pinned down, aiming the weapon into the night sky.

Peter's fingers nudged Neal gently, bringing him back to reality. "Go," he said softly.

Daydream fizzling into the evening, Neal slowly edged towards the stairs. He could feel Peter close behind him.

A couple steps down, Peter moved from behind to beside him and leaned in close. "They'll find us, Neal; we just need to get to daylight. We can buy time until then by going along with him. Let me figure out who he is, and in the meantime try not to aggravate him."

We just need to get to daylight, Neal repeated Peter's words in his head. While it was indirect, Peter was essentially admitting for the first time that help _wasn't_ coming tonight. Neal wasn't sure why that spoken out loud was a chilling statement to him. He'd known it all along. Ever since the other helicopter had passed, even when Peter tried to assure him otherwise. There was just something about Peter saying it himself.

Simple statement, but one that was daunting considering current daylight had only just diminished. What did the next hours have in store? Was following the lead of this stranger the right call?

He continued to walk down the stairs. There was a weird sensation as he took each step down. Some sort of pang, hard to describe, that hit him in the gut. It was reminiscent of something…. He was trying to place it, when it suddenly hit him. He felt a similar feeling to when he first stepped foot into prison.

The parallel association made him uncomfortable.

He paused, again wishing he'd run when he had the chance.

"Keep walking," came the voice behind them.

Neal hadn't realized he'd stopped. He forced himself forward, down another step.

They were reaching the last couple of stairs. Keeping his view frontward, Neal became more curious about what was ahead. His current view gave him a better look into the short hallway, and it was clear there was an open door and a lit room beyond that in front of them about fifteen feet.

Finally down the stairs, he stood in the dark, damp underground hallway, eyeing the walls on both sides that appeared to be constructed with cinderblock reinforcement. His eyes caught sight of a faded yellow sign on one of the walls, and he stepped towards it. He stared at the vintage image designating a fallout shelter, and slowly reached out to touch it, expecting it to be metal.

Before his hand could reach the sign, it was slapped away as the stranger intercepted and then stood between him and the wall. "Keep walking," the man told him. "Don't touch anything."

"The sign," Neal spoke. The hood of the man's jacket still shadowed his face. "Is that what this place was?"

The man shoved him forward, towards the other doorway.

Stumbling slightly at the force, Neal was irked at the sound of his name coming from this unknown person, but without a choice, moved forward.

* * *

"Someone's moving."

Diana looked up, frowning at Jones' statement as he entered the conference room. "Moving?" The couple of other agents in the room remained silent but also looked up, attentive to the discussion.

"Neal's tracker," Jones explained. "It's no longer stationary."

"Then where is it?"

"It's not far," Jones acknowledged, "but the coordinates have changed. We're looking at a new location for when we try to go in at daybreak. We'll keep monitoring it."

"I thought we didn't expect them to try to make it anywhere on foot," Diana said skeptically. "Gerry said they couldn't see a thing when they passed over before. That it's thick woods for miles."

"He did say that," Jones agreed.

"And it's dark. Getting darker." She gestured at the window where the dusk was upon them.

"Also a fact," Jones answered. "Just keeping you up to date…" His tone made his underlying message clear. She didn't need to remind him of the obvious.

She took a deep breath and then let it out. "I know."

One of the other agents in the room, a younger man, cleared his throat. "How do you know they're _both_ on the move?"

Diana turned to him, brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if only Caffrey is?" the junior agent continued. "Isn't the tracking device on him? Isn't he a flight risk?"

Diana glanced over at Jones briefly. She then shook her head and gave the younger agent a forced, stern look. "No, they're together," she stated.

They have to be, she finished the thought in her head silently.

* * *

The stranger trailed closely behind them as they followed his direction and moved past the corridor, into the next room. It was clear he was taking the 'not turning his back' commitment very seriously.

Neal was intrigued as they entered the doorway. The room in front of them appeared to be some sort of… living space. He frowned.

"Shoes off," the stranger told them as soon as they stepped inside.

"What?" Peter asked, frowning. He also seemed intrigued by the room.

"Shoes," the stranger replied. "Off." He was with ease pushing his own boots off without even an effort of loosening laces. The muddy, sturdy shoes got kicked to the side of the door to a clearly scuffed and worn part of the floor beside a pair of shabby looking sneakers.

Silent but acquiescing, Neal and Peter followed suit, a little more slowly pulling off their own wet shoes while standing, one foot at a time.

As he went through the motions, Neal took in as much detail as he could. The room was basic in décor, yet concurrently overwhelming in detail. A glimpse at the technology in the room caught Neal's eye initially. While there was a lot to digest – a couch, an old storage trunk, some tattered posters on the barren walls – an impressive looking computer setup in the corner caught most of Neal's attention. Dual monitors were situated on an l-shaped corner desk, complemented by a sleek keyboard, and an old desk chair that, based on the worn, scratched floorboards surrounding its immediate proximity, had seen a lot of usage. There were piles of papers on the desk.

"You. Over there."

Neal knew that the command was directed to him as it was accompanied by another firm shove, pushing him in the direction of the far corner of the room, where he eyed another doorway with a closed door. Neal had slid a bit in wet socks, but catching his balance, he turned and looked up at their captor, suddenly realizing they were in normal lighting in this underground room. Dusty light bulbs above provided a welcome change to the early evening lighting upstairs.

The man was still hooded, and his face remained shadowed, but without the contrast of the pitch-dark backlight from the flashlight amongst darkness, the image of the man was more detailed than before.

The man had a beard.

And his eyes –

"What are you looking at?" the man spat, pushing him again. Now the gun was raised. "Go. Over there."

"Where?" Neal replied.

"_There_," the man directly, pointing his gun towards the other side of the room again.

"And what?" Neal asked.

The stranger turned the gun on Neal. "And _sit._ You ask too many goddamn questions. That's the last one I'm answering." He enunciated his words with the gun.

"Put the gun away," Peter interjected, stepping forward and raising his arm between Neal and their captor. "We followed you here. We're following now. There's no need for that."

"This is what you call _following_?" the man retorted, jerking the gun this time towards Peter. "Are you kidding me?"

Neal took in the sight of Peter now for the first time in a few hours. His handler looked tired, his clothes dirty and wet. Soaked. His hair was matted down, dripping. He could see a bruise on the left side of his head, a dark purple. Neal doubted he looked much different himself. In fact, he felt even more wet, the result of his run through the pouring rain earlier. He shivered.

"He is following," Peter countered, voice calm but terse. "We both are. He's just asking questions. He's no threat to you. Please put the gun down."

"Please?" the man echoed condescendingly. "You were always so polite, Peter."

Neal watched Peter, and realized the man was also avidly studying the stranger as well, now that they were in better lighting. He was actively trying to better visualize this person - to place him.

The stranger picked up on this as well.

"Trying to recognize me, Peter?" the man replied, chuckling. "No luck yet? It's a shame… I thought you'd have better recall than that."

Peter frowned, yet said nothing.

Shaking his head briefly, the stranger said, "Well, I'm going to give you some reminders. But first…" Then once again he pointed to the other door and fixated his gun a second time on Neal. "You. Go there. Sit and don't move. It's Peter I need to speak with."

Neal felt conflicted. But there was a gun pointed at him. There wasn't much choice. He could also one again sense the patience of the man waning further. Neal was considerably sensitive to the aura of others – that's how he often found advantages – and didn't miss the warning signs nearly pulsating off this other man.

Neal looked towards Peter, but Peter's eyes were fixated on the stranger, on the gun.

Neal slowly walked, leaving wet footprints each step, towards where he'd been directed. Towards a barren wall of the room. He reached the end of the floor, roughly fifteen feet he estimated, and then turned and faced them.

"Sit," the stranger told him again.

Musing that there was a battered couch just ten feet away from him that would have been an option, though less than ideal based on a superficial look at its condition, Neal began to lower himself to the floor. "Sitting," he said.

A moment passed, the stranger staring at him on the floor.

"Peter," the stranger then spoke. He dropped his arm to his side, lowering the gun. "Desk. Top drawer on the left."

Peter paused at the instruction. "What?"

"Drawer. Now," the man persisted.

Seated on the floor, Neal stretched his legs out straight in front of him. He then placed his hands on the ground, which was concrete and cold to the touch. He watched the scene in front of him, frowning slightly as Peter followed the instructions, slowly but steadily. Peter moved the few feet towards the desk, reaching for the drawer that was specified. He pulled it open.

Peter raised his eyebrows, turning to view the hooded man.

"You should know what to do with those," the stranger told him.

Peter let out a sigh, and then glanced back towards Neal. "It's really not necessary."

Neal frowned.

"It is," the stranger replied stiffly. "He hasn't shown an ability to follow direction or shut his mouth yet. I don't need him trying anything while we talk. This will make sure we're not interrupted."

Feeling a pang of confusion and uncertainty, Neal continued to watch. Peter's motions were slow but deliberate. However, he resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he saw Peter reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of standard issue handcuffs. That was it?

"It's okay," Neal voiced aloud, resisting a further quip. He didn't fear handcuffs.

He didn't miss the warning glare that Peter shot him at voicing the sentiment.

He shut up.

"Do it, Peter," the stranger said. "And no messing around. We have a lot to discuss."

Peter reached into the drawer and took the cuffs in his grasp reluctantly, exhaling silently. He then walked slowly across the small room to reach Neal. He unhurriedly lowered himself down in front of him on his haunches, making direct eye contact as he reached to his eye level. Neal didn't respond, but connected his gaze with his handler. "Hands," Peter told him softly.

Neal raised his hands up obediently, holding his wrists close enough together to make the next step easier.

"Hurry up. And I'll know if you don't lock 'em," the stranger persisted. "I'll hear it."

Peter sighed yet again. He broke eye contact briefly with his CI to slowly move the cuffs around Neal's wrists, his fingers pressing into his skin as he did so. "Nothing stupid," he whispered to him under his breath. His fingers squeezed Neal's wrist particularly hard as he made the statement. The metal of the cuffs moved more gently. "Trust me."

"Mm-hm," Neal murmured back. He watched the cuffs secure around his wrists, familiar of the process and its feeling, and then remained stoic at the familiar metallic clicking sounds of them cinching tighter.

Peter did a quick tug on the metal, slipping a finger between the metal and Neal's skin. Neal mentally noted that Peter had _never _left a finger's worth of space on his cuffs before. He was now confused. Wasn't that an invitation to do something?

Peter patted Neal's wrist quickly before he dropped the secured hands into Neal's lap. He slowly stood and started to back away.

"Let me see," the stranger requested.

Neal held his hands up, showing off the bound hands. He maintained a forced look of displeasure.

"Good," the stranger requested. "Now keep your mouth shut too before I give your friend some duct tape."

Neal said nothing..

It was then the stranger moved towards his desk. "Come, Peter. It's time we get reacquainted."


End file.
